


All the young dudes

by gamesformay



Series: all the young dudes [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All seven years, F/M, M/M, Marauders, Marauders' Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-03-08 15:43:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 158,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13461387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamesformay/pseuds/gamesformay
Summary: (1971-1978. A love story, a war story, a record collection.)





	1. hunky dory

**Author's Note:**

> This one follows all seven years. I'll be posting it gradually; at the time of this posting I'm halfway through sixth year. Will be split into two parts, and rating/pairings/characters will evolve as we go. Chapter is titled after the album, as all the chapter titles are--  
> items in the "collection".  
> Endless thanks to Eleanor (sanjunipero) for being the reason this story exists.  
> I'm tumblr user macklesufficient, come say hi. Thanks for reading.

 

***

 

The train was late that year.

 

***

 

"Why didn't you cut the lad's hair before he left?” Granddad says. “The other kids’ll think he's a nancy."

“Shut it, Dad,” Mum says. She tugs the trunk off of the trolley with a _thunk_ and pushes the covered basket into Peter’s arms. Inside, Tesla yowls. 

“Shh, girl,” Peter tells her. She hisses. 

More anxious than usual (which is saying something when it comes to him), Peter pulls fingers through his fringe. Maybe it is a bit long. "Mum?"

She's digging through her handbag. "I swear, if I forgot me bloody cigarettes..."

"Might fit in with this lot though," Granddad says, looking around the crowded platform with disapproval. "Whole lot of weirdos."

"Mum?" Peter says again. His voice squeaks a bit, like it always does when he's nervous. At least he isn’t stammering yet.

She finds her cigarettes in her coat pocket. She wedges one into the corner of her mouth, lights it with her wand, puffs on it anxiously. "Yeah?”

He pulls on her sleeve and she crouches down.

"For God's sake, boy,” Granddad says, but Mum ignores him.

“What is it, lovey?”

"What if nobody likes me?"

"Don't be silly, I was Muggle-born and I did fine." She checks her watch. “Should be here by now.”

“Typical,” Granddad grunts. “Drag me bones all the way to London for the damn thing to be late. What you get with these people running things.” 

Mum rolls her eyes. “Oh aye, and they're all Commies too," she mumbles, sarcastic.

"What was that?"

“Nothing, Dad."

"Look here, lad,” Granddad says. “I remember when your mum was here-- lotta freaks round, so you watch yourself. Weirdos and long-hairs overrunning everywhere. Look you don’t get in with the wrong crowd.”

"Er, yeah," Peter says. Privately, he thinks he’ll be lucky if anybody speaks to him at all, weirdos and long-hairs included.

The scream of a whistle cuts the air. The scarlet locomotive swims into view through the crowd, sending up thick clouds of white smoke, and Peter feels his stomach drop to his feet. 

Here goes nothing.

Some look must’ve come over his face, because Mum crouches down again. “You’ll be alright, lovey. Just…” She takes a drag of her cigarette, thinking. Finally she says, “Keep your wits about you.”

He nods. 

 

*** 

 

"One more, one more!" Mum calls. She clicks the camera yet again and there’s a _poof_ of green smoke. Mum beams. "My handsome boys!"

" _Muuuum._ "

Dad laughs, tightens his arm around James, and says, "Poorami, you’ve got to be in one.”

" _Daaaaad._ "

Leaving the camera levitating in place, Mum scurries over. "Stop your whinging, mere laal." She crowds in on James' other side, squeezing him between her and Dad. "Say 'Quidditch!'"

Unattended, the camera emits another puff of smoke. Mum claps. “That was a good one, I know it."

Dad looks at his watch. “The train’s never been late before. Very peculiar.”

James is impatient. He’s heard about Hogwarts since he could walk, he’d like to bloody well _go_ there already. “You're sure you can't send me my broomstick?" 

“Fat chance, pal," Dad says with a sporting clap to James' back. "You know the rules."

“Doesn’t mean I’ve got to _follow_ them.”

Mum gives a disapproving sniff while Dad chortles. Then she ducks down and tries to flatten his hair. You'd think she'd know better by now. 

"Losing battle, there, Poorami."

“Thought it'd be good form to try," she says. She plants a kiss to the top of James' head and gives him about the eighty-second hug of the morning. “My little boy, off to school! I'm all of a dither."

" _Muuuum._ "

"You'll write every day, yes?"

"Every week," Dad amends when James snorts. "Give Hagrid my best! Got me out of a tight spot or two in my day, that fellow.“

"Introduce yourself to the prefects, they can help you get to your classes and see that you don't get lost.”

"But don't get _too_ cosy," Dad says wisely, "Bit of prats, the most of them.”

" _Warren._ "

"Sorry, dear."

“Stay out of trouble.”

"Try to, anyway," Dad says with a wink.

James grins. "I'll do my best."

 

***

 

"Don't cry."

Mum fumbles in her pocket for her handkerchief, giving a watery laugh. "Sorry. I'm trying."

"This is good, right?" Remus asks.

Mum laughs again, wiping her red eyes. “Yes, it's good. I never thought…”

"I know."

"Neither of us thought—”

She cuts off, abruptly becoming interested in his trunk. She’s never said so but Remus knows it’s a rule for her, not mentioning Dad. 

“I know,” Remus says.

She looks out over the crowded platform, at the bustle of students and families and trunks and cages. “I’m a dreadful mother,” she jokes. “I should’ve gotten you an owl.”

“They have ones students can use,” Remus says quickly. Owls are expensive. 

“But not a telephone in the whole place, apparently. Very silly, if you ask me.”

“I’ll write loads.”

“I want to talk to Madam Pomfrey again.” 

“You’ve talked to her four times.”

“This Sunday. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t forget.” He’s sure of that.

“I’ll write you and remind you,” she says. “I’ll write her, too. See, I’m the one who needs an owl.”

“They can switch it at the post office. Besides, Muggles can’t—”

“I know that. I was being funny.”

“Oh.”

“Everybody’s a critic.”

“I’ll be fine,” Remus says.

The train whistles into the station. She gives him a long, tight squeeze and says, “Write me when it’s over.”

“I will.”

“As soon as you come to, write to me. Ask Madam Pomfrey for paper.”

“Alright.”

“And then the day after that, to tell me how you’re recovering.”

“I will.”

She leans down and hugs him again, even longer this time. Into his hair she says, “I’m so proud of you.”

"I haven't done anything yet."

That surprises a laugh out of her. "You will. You'll see." 

She lets go of him. Then, beaming despite her wet eyes, she takes his trunk on its trolley and gestures ahead toward the train. “Unto the breach, then?”

 

***

 

“What am I supposed to do with you gone?”

“Die of boredom, probably,” Sirius says.

Regulus groans. “Easy for you to say.”

“Sure is. I’m going to have mad adventures every single day.” Sirius grins. “I’ll never be bored again.”

“Can’t believe I’m stuck with them for two whole years,” Regulus says. Both of their gazes track over to the other side of the platform. Mother is gossiping away with some other lady in silk robes; Father stands behind her, clearly bored. 

“Look on the bright side,” Sirius says. “They’ll be in a much better mood without me around. They like you better than me.”

“They like _everything_ better than you.”

Sirius shrugs. 

The train comes in but Mother doesn’t seem to notice, engrossed in whatever Mrs So-and-So is saying. Father looks at his watch, brow furrowed in annoyance. “Guess I’d better get going,” Sirius says.

“Two whole stupid years,” Regulus repeats. “You’ve got to at least write to me.”

“Sure I will,” Sirius says as the two of them heft up his trunk. “Send me your drawings.”

“But then I won’t have them.”

“Send me letters describing them, then.”

“Alright.”

“They’re always dragons anyway.”

“Are not.”

“Are so.”

“I’ll draw something else, then. And write you a letter about it.”

“Good.”

They lug his trunk over to the nearest train carriage. There’s only one person in there, a girl huddled against the window. The two of them settle his trunk onto the rack overhead, which is hard because Sirius has got such a runty little pipsqueak for a brother. 

“Do you need help?”

Sirius turns around. The girl’s looked up from the window. He sees that she’s been crying, which he has no idea what to do about. 

“No thanks.”

“I’ll get it!” says a new voice. A boy about his age has appeared out of nowhere. He’s not much bigger than Regulus is, with glasses a bit too big for his face, but he gets the trunk the rest of the way onto the rack with one good shove. 

“Could’ve done it,” Sirius mumbles.

“James!”

A woman is peeking in through the open window, holding a woolen jumper. She has the same dark skin and black hair as Glasses Boy. “Don’t get chilly!”

“ _Muuuum_.”

Glasses Boy crosses to the window to take the jumper and be kissed and fussed over while Sirius turns to Regulus. “Guess you’d better leave now.”

Regulus lurches forward and hugs him. “Bye,” he says.

The train gets going a little after that. Sirius drapes himself across the seats, Glasses Boy and Crying Girl sitting across from him. Sirius wonders if he’s supposed to talk to them. 

He doesn’t have to decide. Glasses Boy pipes up.

“Did you know there’s a giant squid in the lake at Hogwarts?”

Sirius raises his eyebrows. “No.”

His eyes widen behind the glasses, which Sirius now notices are rather crooked. “Well, there _is_. It’s got huge fangs too, long as your arm.”

“Squids don’t have fangs. They don’t have mouths.”

“Yeah they do. My dad said so. They make you swim with it when you get detention.”

“Your dad’s pulling your leg.”

“Is not.”

“My cousin told me all about Hogwarts,” Sirius explains. “She would’ve mentioned a dirty great fanged squid. They do have dragons in the woods, though.”

Glasses Kid’s mouth drops open. “Dragons? Really?”

“Yeah!” Sirius nods. He’s always loved Andromeda’s stories about Hogwarts; every time she and her sisters came over he’d beg her to tell him one more. “The size of houses. She said you can see them move around in the woods if you watch close enough. Like, see them moving the tops of the trees.”

The look of rapture leaves Glasses Kid’s face, and he snorts. “Come off it, that’s the wind!”

“What, moving entire trees? She says you can see ’em swaying.”

“Cause that’s what trees do, trees sway all the time. In the wind.”

Sirius smirks. “You’re just scared they’ll eat you up.”

The compartment door slides open and somebody else comes in, a skinny boy who sits down next to Sirius. He and the crying girl start talking but Glasses Kid ignores them.

“Like I’d be _scared_. That’s why we go to Hogwarts, isn’t it? To have adventures and, y’know, fight dragons and squids and stuff.”

“I don’t think first years fight dragons,” Sirius says sadly.

“Only a matter of time, though.” Glasses Kid runs a hand through his hair, which sticks up in a way Father wouldn’t approve of. This makes Sirius like him more. “Hogwarts is the greatest place in the world, there’s gonna be all sorts of cool stuff to do.”

The two go quiet just in time to hear a declaration from the third boy in the compartment: “You’d better be in Slytherin.”

“Slytherin?”

Glasses Kid turns to Crying Girl and Skinny Boy. “Who wants to be in Slytherin?” Looking back at Sirius, he asks, “I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

Sirius isn’t sure what to say to that, so he says, “My whole family have been in Slytherin.”

“Blimey,” says Glasses Kid. “And I thought you seemed alright!” 

He grins. “Maybe I’ll break the tradition. Where are you heading, if you’ve got the choice?”

“Gryffindor!” Glasses Kid says, pretending to lift a sword. “Where dwell the brave at heart! Like my dad.”

Skinny Boy makes a little scoffing noise. Glasses Kid turns to him.

“Got a problem with that?”

Skinny Boy, who Sirius has decided that he hates, sneers. “No, if you’d rather be brawny than brainy—”

“Where’re you hoping to go, seeing as you’re neither?” 

Glasses Kid laughs so hard he tips over. Crying Girl looks at the two of them like they’re something nasty stuck to the upholstery. “Come on, Severus, let’s find another compartment.”

“ _Oooooo_ ,” Glasses Kid crows. Enjoying himself now, Sirius imitates Crying Girl’s oh-so-snooty tone, his new friend joining in, and when Glasses Kid sticks out his leg to trip Skinny Boy on his way out Sirius laughs even harder.

“See ya, Snivellus!” Glasses Kid calls over the _clang_ of the sliding door. He laughs again. “Merlin’s pants, what a charming chap! No question who we’ll be testing hexes out on, eh?”

Sirius is still laughing when he says, “‘We’?”

“Yes, obviously, we’re friends,” Glasses Kid says, with an air of _do keep up_. “Another reason why you’re going to have to not be in Slytherin. I couldn’t take the shame of it, my best mate in Slytherin.”

“Guess I won’t be in Slytherin then,” Sirius says, and even though it’s an absolutely barmy thing to say— people in his family just _aren’t_ in Gryffindor, it’s never happened, not ever— it doesn’t feel that mad here in this compartment with a boy who is, it seems, his best mate now. “I should probably know what your name is.”

“James Potter,” says Glasses Kid, who is apparently called James Potter.

“Sirius.” He doesn’t tell him his surname on purpose.

“That’s weird.”

“With an ‘i’. Two of them. Like the star.”

“What kind of name’s that?”

“A family one.” He’s got ‘the fourth’ after his name, technically, but James doesn’t need to know that. 

“Your family must be weird.”

“You’ve no idea.”

“Too bad. What’s your surname?” 

Before he can answer, the door slides open again. A new boy’s standing there, a covered basket under his arm. He’s shorter and wider than the two of them, and blond. 

He looks rather nervous. “Can I—?”

“Sure,” James says. The boy sits down and sets the basket on the seat next to him.

“I’m Peter,” says the boy named Peter.

“Spiffing to meet you, Peter. I’m James, he’s Sirius.”

Sirius is opening his mouth to say that he can introduce himself perfectly fine, thanks, when Peter’s basket emits a strangled keening sound.

“What in Merlin’s name have you got in there?”

“It’s alright, that’s just Tesla,” Peter says. He has a bit of a stammer. “She doesn’t like traveling. Can— can I— would it be alright if I let her out?”

James shrugs. “Not the boss of you.”

Peter opens the flap on the front of the basket and out springs a fat brown cat, looking very hard-done-by as she curls up on her owner’s lap.

“What sort of a name’s Tesla?” Sirius asks. 

“It’s, er. It’s the name of a, of a scientist. I named her after him.”

“What’s that?”

“A scientist?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s, it’s, er—”

“It’s like a Muggle that tries to do magic,” James says. “My mum told me about them.”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“Are your parents Muggles?” Sirius asks, fascinated. He’s never met a Muggleborn before.

“Granddad is, and he lives with us, and—me mum’s Muggleborn, y’know, and he lives with us and he doesn’t…er.” Peter scratches Tesla’s ears. “He likes me to know, er, both sides, I guess.”

“So you’re around Muggle stuff all the time, then?” James sounds intrigued. “That must be mad.” 

“I saw a television once,” Sirius adds. He remembers vividly: him and Regulus sneaking out of a family party to wander around Muggle London, exploring a shop with rows of the things. The shopkeeper gave them a look but let them stay, because ‘Top of the Pops is on’.

“There was a man on it playing guitar with glitter on his face,” Sirius recalls. The image stuck with him for some reason. “Muggles are mad.”

“I’ve never seen anybody wearing glitter. I mean, me cousin had a guitar once, but—”

“Why do you talk like that?” Sirius interrupts. “Is that a Muggle thing too?”

“Talk like what?” 

“Like that.” He looks to James for backup. Surely he knows what he means; Sirius can hardly understand Peter when he talks. 

“His accent?” James raises his eyebrows. “You never met a Northerner before?” 

“I’m from Lancashire,” Peter says weakly.

James laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “Not your fault he’s been living under a rock.” He turns to Sirius. “Not everybody talks as posh as you.”

“What’s posh?”

He laughs again and doesn’t answer the question. Sirius feels confused and a little embarrassed. “You must be really old stock, never even heard a funny accent before,” James says. “Pureblood, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your surname? You never said.”

Sirius braces himself. “Black.”

“ _Black?_ Well, that explains it, doesn’t it? I’m in the presence of royalty!”

“Come off it.”

James looks back to Peter. “They say the Black family’s kind of evil, but they’re also _rolling_ in it.”

“Rolling in what?” 

Sirius snorts. “The Dark Arts, mostly.” 

“Everybody’s heard of the Blacks,” James explains. “They’ve been around for centuries and the inbreeding’s turned them funny. They’re all haemophiliacs and batshit bonkers.”

“I’m only one of those,” Sirius says.

“Which one?”

“None of your business.”

“I’d never met one of them before, though,” James goes on. “I mean, I’m pureblood and all, but you lot—” He stands and gives a theatrical bow. Peter laughs, Sirius glares at him.

“I’ll feed you to that fanged squid, just watch me.”

“Oooh, I better watch my back! This one’ll take the bone of my little finger and use it to stir his tea!”

Sirius smirks. “While sitting on my throne of Galleons, of course.”

“And dead people!”

“With my diamonds.”

“And your poncy accent.”

Sirius takes off his shoe and hurls it at James who ducks, roaring with laughter.

The time passes quickly after that. Sirius is watching green hills roll by outside the window, eating Every Flavor Beans with a dangerous absent-mindedness, when James turns to Peter and says, “What House do you want to be in, then?”

Peter fidgets nervously with the cover of his comic book. “Well…er. Mum was in Ravenclaw, so that’s where she wants me to go, but I—I’m not smart enough for that.”

“What?” James says with outrage. “Sure you are, with all that science stuff!” 

Peter’s gone rather pink. “I mean, I like maths and stuff, but school—I’m bad at it, right? I get really nervous, I know all the stuff but then they pass out the exams and suddenly I forget everything…”

“Whatever, Ravenclaws are snobs anyway. Sirius and me are going to be in Gryffindor.” 

“Do both of you have Gryffindor parents?” 

“Not quite,” Sirius says.

“My dad! Mum’s not, though, she went to school in India.”

“India?” Sirius says with awe. He’s barely left London. “What’d she go there for?”

“She’s from there, stupid, that’s why I’m this lovely colour, see?” James says, fanning the fingers of one deep brown hand. Then he turns back to Peter. “Sirius’ whole family has been in Slytherin, but he’s going to be a Gryffindor anyway. Your family doesn’t matter one bit. Where do _you_ want to be?”

They jump as the door slides open. Sirius cranes his neck around to look. The witch with the candy trolley’s already come by; who could be coming in now? 

“Oh,” says the boy at the door.

He’s a normal-looking boy, with brown hair and an average sort of face. It’s a nice face, though. He has very big, very brown eyes that aren’t looking at Sirius. He notices them anyway.

Sirius will remember that, later. And for a lot of years— for all the years he’ll get, as it turns out— Sirius will remember the nausea. 

“Wrong compartment,” the boy mutters. He starts to close the door. 

“Hang on,” Sirius hears himself say. “Are you a first year too?”

Peering around the half-closed door, the boy nods. _He has freckles_ , Sirius thinks. Then he thinks, _What?_

“Do you want to sit with us?” Sirius asks him. He isn’t sure why he says that. It sort of falls out. What's wrong with him? 

The boy looks sideways down the corridor. “Sorry, I should…” He leaves.

Sirius frowns. He feels... funny. Is his face red? “He looked worried, don’t you think?”

James gnaws contemplatively on a licorice wand. “Weird.” He nudges Peter with his foot, who’s been distracted for the past minute by an inexplicably anxious, growling Tesla. She seemed to freak out when the door opened. She’s calmed down now, though. “You’ve got to answer the question.”

“I…” Peter’s eyes dart quickly between the two of them. “I want to be in Gryffindor too,” he blurts. “Me-- my mum says they’re reckless and troublemakers, but…I want to be a hero.”

“And you shall be!” James declares, spinning in his seat to sling an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “Now Sirius,” he says in a mock-somber voice. “As your new brothers-in-arms, Pete and I are going to have to insist that you not be in Slytherin.”

Sirius laughs. Leave it to James to declare them brothers after knowing each other for two hours. He’s never had friends outside of Reg and Andromeda before, his own blood, but he thinks he might now.

“I can’t just _decide_ to not be Slytherin,” he explains. “It’s in my blood.”

“They’re not you, now are they?” James says. “What’s blood matter?”

Sirius pictures the look on his mother’s face if she heard that question. He shrugs it off. He’s not going to think about her now, or any of them. 

 

***

 

The compartment where Remus settles himself stays empty, which he's glad of. He couldn't sleep a wink last night and his nerves have faded just enough now that he feels how tired he is. He leans up against the window and lets the rattle of the train lull him to sleep. _When I wake up_ , he thinks, stomach squirming, _I'll be at Hogwarts._

He doesn't sleep soundly: he has strange, vague dreams, the sounds of the train fading in and out. He dreams that the train stops and goes dark, that faceless adults come on and say that there's somebody here who shouldn't be, there’s been a mistake, who let something like that on the train? Dark figures move outside in the corridor, the compartment door slides open, they come in to take him away and he stands up to fight but what's the use, what can he do-- _And they're right, I don't belong here_ …

He almost surfaces for a moment there. Is he dreaming that two new people come into the compartment? But then he's under again, and the train rattles on.

A while later, or maybe no time at all, he's woken up by a _bang_ like a small firecracker. Eyes still shut, he picks up the faint smell of spent gunpowder.

“Sev, quit it!” comes a girl's voice in a whisper. "You'll wake him."

"Doubt it," says a boy. "He's slept like the dead this whole time."

Maybe he was, but he's awake now. Remus doesn't much fancy joining a conversation with two strangers, though, so he stays slumped against the window with his eyes shut. With luck he’ll fall back asleep again.

The other two keep talking. 

"You said we weren't to do magic outside of school," says the girl.

"We're close, it hardly counts. We're _so_ close," the boy says with obvious joy. “Just a few more hours, and we'll be there.”

"Tell me more about it."

"I've already told you everything I know!"

“Tell me again, then.”

"What do you want to hear about?"

A pause, and then the girl says, "The Forbidden Forest. Are there really magical animals in it?"

"Loads," says the boy. "That's why it’s forbidden."

"What kind of creatures are there?"

“All kinds. Centaurs and unicorns and stuff like that, they won't hurt you, probably. But there's other stuff, too, more dangerous. It's said to have a whole colony of acromantula-- giant spiders--"

The girl gasps and the boy goes on, a smile in his voice. "Oh, that's not the worse of it. "

“What’s worse than _giant spiders?_ ”

"Well, " he says, clearly enjoying the suspense, "some people say there are werewolves living there. I doubt, it, though."

Remus really wishes he were asleep.

"Werewolves? Those are real?"

"Oh, sure. I don't think there are actually any in the forest, though, that’s just a dumb thing they say to scare first years.”

“How do you reckon that?”

“They wouldn’t live in the woods. They live with everybody else, pretending they're people."

"They're like the ones in the Muggle fairy tales, then? Humans that transform during the full moon?"

"Yeah— well, sort of. They look human.”

“But they aren't?"

"Lily, what sort of human being do you know who turns into a monster once a month?” says the boy, teasing. “Of course they aren't. You haven’t got to worry about them, though," he says quickly, "they don't live around normal people, really-- they keep to the fringes, you know. The government keeps them away from big populations. It's not safe to have them around.”

“Even when the moon isn’t full?”

“Nah. Most of them end up criminals— they can't help it. Their minds aren’t as developed as ours.”

“Oh.”

"Yeah, they're sort of primitive that way. Bit sad, really. There aren't a lot of them to begin with, though.”

"People don’t…” The girl lowers her voice. “People don't _kill_ them?"

"Not so much anymore,” the boy says breezily. “Mostly they do it themselves-- transforming into a wolf does a lot of damage, they don't live very long. Some of them die just from transforming. "

"That's awful."

"I dunno. Would you want to live like that?"

"Well, no, but..."

"I think I'd prefer death, if it was me," the boy says.

Remus opens his eyes, sits up. The girl and boy-- red-haired and shrunken-looking, respectively-- startle. 

"I'm so sorry, we didn't mean to wake you!” the girl says. "We'll shut up-- Sev, say you're sorry--"

“It’s fine," Remus says, getting to his feet. "I'll just..."

He walks out of the compartment and slides the door shut on the girl's apologies. He starts down the train, no idea where he means to go, wondering if he’d get in trouble if he was sick in the middle of the corridor. The rattle and bump of the train, comforting before, sends his insides lurching and squirming; he feels the blood rush from his face leaving him clammy and cold but peculiarly sweaty. He needs to sit down.

But where? He doesn't want to see anyone, he doesn't want to look anyone in the face because they can _tell_ , screams the panic gripping his heart, they must look take one look at him and know that he doesn't belong here. He's wrong, he's dirty and dangerous, and suddenly the black robes his mum bought for him at the secondhand store in Diagon Alley feel ridiculous on him. He tugs at his collar as his throat constricts, something hard stuck at the back of it.

What is he playing at? You can put a monster in a uniform, the monster’s mother can darn up all the threadbare bits and tell the monster to comb its hair and send the monster off to school, but it's still a monster. He feels absurd and exposed and he wants his mum, he wants to go home.

The door to the compartment up ahead catches his eye. Through the little window he sees only empty seat, no sign of anybody. He slides the door open with profound relief.

It's quickly squashed: there are three people in here. From this angle all he sees of the boy taking up the right side of the compartment is his legs stretched out across the seats. 

“Oh. Wrong compartment,” Remus says.

Before he can leave there’s a voice from right next to him: “Hang on.” 

He looks down and sees the boy to whom the legs belong. He’s a bit startling to look at it, light-skinned and dark-haired as somebody in an overexposed photograph. In an accent Remus didn’t know existed outside of old wireless broadcasts from Buckingham Palace, he asks, “Are you a first year too?”

He nods.

“Do you want to sit with us?”

_No, I want to go home_ , Remus thinks. He looks down the corridor. But where else is there to go? “Sorry, I should…” 

He closes the door and goes back to walking. 

At the very back of the train there’s a little lip with a window set into it, looking out over the tracks as they rush out from under the wheels. Remus tucks himself into the corner, sits down under the window, makes himself as small as possible, wills himself invisible. What if someone tells him off for not being in a compartment? 

But nobody bothers him. He stays there until the train stops. 

 

***

 

As the whole school stares at the first years, crowded toward the front of the Great Hall with a hat sitting on a stool before them, Peter finds himself wishing his last name started with a Z.

He hasn’t got a B, at least. After ‘Ackerly, Roger’ is finished becoming a Ravenclaw, ‘Black, Sirius’ is the second name Professor McGonagall calls. At Peter’s side, James gives Sirius a grin and a shove. 

“Knock ’em dead,” he whispers. Sirius grins back, marches up to the stool, and sits down. The hat falls right down over his eyes. 

Peter feels a little jolt of happiness for his new friend when the hat shouts “GRYFFINDOR!”, but he seems to be the only one. 

Whispers break out across the Hall. When the first boy was Sorted the whole Ravenclaw table burst into cheers and applause, but nobody’s clapping now. A short, soft scream makes Peter turn around: at the table on the far right an older girl with blonde hair is on her feet, hands clapped over her mouth. The girl sitting next to her tugs her back down and whispers something, black hair swinging over her face. 

When Peter faces the front again Sirius is still on the stool, lifting the brim of the hat to peer out at the whispering crowd. He’s gone very white.

James’ shout makes Peter jump: 

“YEAH, SIRIUS!” 

Across the Hall, hundreds of necks crane. 

“THAT’S MY BOY!” James cries. “YOU SHOW THEM!” He lets out a riotous whoop, hops up and down, claps his hands. 

Laughter replaces the whispers, somebody starts the applause. By the time Sirius sits down at the Gryffindor table half the school is cheering, laughing, whistling. Even from here Peter sees him beam. 

The Sorting goes on. 'Bode, Florence' becomes the next Gryffindor, and then ‘Brocklehurst, Vera’ and 'Evans, Lily' and then a boy, ‘Lupin, Remus’, and it’s not until Professor McGonagall’s reached the ‘M’ names that Peter realizes he’s only been taking note of Gryffindors.

_Don’t be stupid,_ he tells himself. _Just be happy with wherever they put you._ He looks up at the starry, fathomless ceiling sparkling with thousands of candles, floating up there by magic. One thing’s for sure— anything here will be miles better than his old school in Lancashire.

“Pettigrew, Peter!”

The inside of the hat is dark when it flops over his eyes. A small voice speaks in his ear.

“Oh,” it says. “ _Oho_.”

Peter waits.

“What a mind have we here— would do well in Ravenclaw, my goodness, yes. But there’s cunning, I see, intuition. Where shall I put you?”

_Please, just put me somewhere,_ Peter thinks. _Anywhere._

“But…hmm,” says the voice. “This thirst for adventure, for courage…for greatness…why, that does make things easier. Yes, this is a GRYFFINDOR!”

The last word is shouted to the Hall and Peter takes the hat off. Over the applause from the Gryffindor table, he can hear James cheer.

 

***

 

“Well, this is surprising,” says the small voice in the dark.

_Listen, I know,_ Sirius thinks. _I know what my surname is, and I know you’ll probably want to put me in Slytherin—_

“Not for a moment, Sirius Black,” says the voice. Then it shouts, “GRYFFINDOR!”

 

***

 

“Hmm. Difficult.”

_I’m sorry,_ Remus thinks. _I’m not supposed to be here, I can’t imagine where something like me would go—_

The small voice cuts him off. “The lycanthropy? No, that’s nothing. But difficult…Intelligence, and willingness to work. Loyalty— to a fault, perhaps? And kindness, my goodness, profound kindness. Rare at your age.”

_Thank you,_ Remus thinks. He’s never thought of himself that way, but he figures it impolite to argue. _Hufflepuff, then? That would be nice._

“You would do well, yes…but no. No, I think not.”

Remus’ heart sinks. Has the hat decided that he shouldn’t be here after all? It’s about to announce to the whole school that there’s been a mistake, any second—

“GRYFFINDOR!”

 

***

 

The hat barely touches James’ head.

He slides in next to Sirius at the Gryffindor table and gives him a friendly punch. “Piece of cake, right? Told you it wouldn’t make you a stinking Slytherin.”

Only Sirius could manage to smirk while looking uneasy. “Yeah,” he says. “That was the easy part, I think.”

 

***

 

Remus sits on the bed that is now his in the dormitory where he now lives, and yet again he can’t fall asleep. He has trouble sleeping sometimes in the week before the full, so maybe it’s because of the moon on Sunday. But itprobably isn’t. 

In the quiet darkness, a voice startles him.

It’s a soft voice, but it’s very clear, like it’s close by. “Really, I don’t know how to stop it. Better tell somebody…”

For a moment Remus is terrified. Is it a ghost? He met ghosts at the feast and they all seemed very nice; do they often float about in the nighttime and scare people? 

It takes him a second to process that the voice is familiar; he remembers the near-anachronistic accent. He pushes back the red hangings on his own four poster, leans out, and peers at the bed to the right. Its hangings are open. 

Sure enough, the boy in it is…talking. He appears to be deeply asleep, with one side of his face mashed into the pillow, but words are spilling with surprising clarity out of his open mouth. “You should tell her,” he says, dead asleep. “She’ll be cross, though, leaving a terrible mess…”

_I live with a sleep-talker_ , he thinks. _How odd_. He retreats behind his own hangings and tries again to sleep.

The sleep-talker (Remus realises with discomfort that he can’t recall this boy’s name. He remembers James because he talked so much, and he remembers Peter because of his cat who immediately knew Remus for what he was and hated him, but this one’s name is evading him), however, has other plans. He doesn’t get louder, exactly, but he begins to sound very distraught.

“Really, you should get help…won’t stop by itself, I can’t…I need help,” comes the voice, and a distinct note of terror has crept in. Remus isn’t sure what the polite thing to do here is. Clearly his new housemate is having a nightmare—should he wake him?

“Please, you’ve got to help me. I don’t…Got to help me. It’s going going to kill me…They’re going to kill me, please…”

The only humane thing to do is intervene. Remus gets up, crosses the small gap of space between their beds, and leans over the boy’s sleeping, twitching form. He pokes him on the shoulder. 

“Hey, hey wake up.” He doesn’t stir. Remus pokes him harder. “Wake up, please.” He pokes him some more. 

“I really—” the sleep-talker begins, but before he can finish the sentence his eyes fly open. In the light from the almost-full moon they’re a curiously pale grey colour. They’re rather startling. 

The boy takes in his surroundings, blinks, looks at Remus, and says, “Was I talking again?”

He nods.

“Blast it,” says the sleep-talker, shaking long dark hair from his face. “Mum says she did it when she was a kid and she grew out of it, but I _still_ haven’t. Was it stupid? Reg tells me I say really stupid stuff but I think he’s making it up.”

“You sounded frightened, actually. That’s why I woke you. Something,” and Remus tries to handle this situation delicately, “something about not being able to stop something? You were calling for help.” He decides that mentioning the ‘it’s going to kill me, they’re going to kill me’ bit falls under the category of indelicacy. 

The boy sits up to face him and says, remarkably casually, “Oh, I bet I was bleeding again.”

“You…what?”

“Bleeding. I hardly get nightmares but when I do it’s usually that one.”

Remus tries not to look horrified. Suspects he fails. “Why on earth would you dream about that?”

The boy shrugs. “Family disease, I expect.”

“I don’t understand.”

He blinks, surprised, like he’d expected him to know. “Haemophilia. Loads of the Blacks have it.”

Now that he mentions it, Remus remembers James last night making a joke about how old and scary this boy’s family is. Remus doesn’t know the names of all the great pureblood lines, but he figures Black must be one of them. “Oh,” he says. “Like the Romanovs.”

“What?”

“The— never mind.”

“Yeah, me and a bunch of people in my family have got it.” Without breaking his air of nonchalance he says, “Centuries of inbreeding, you know.”

“I, er. I see.”

The boy smirks. “Black blood—useless, isn’t it? It’s the purest of anybody’s, but it can’t clot worth a damn.”

Remus surprises himself by laughing. He turns to glance at the other two beds. James and Peter, though, are still sleeping soundly. 

“You haven’t got to worry about them,” the boy says. “They slept alright through my talking earlier. Not surprising, considering how much treacle Potter put away. Don’t know where he puts it, the beanpole,” he adds fondly.

For just a moment Remus feels jealous. Only one night and already his classmates are becoming friends with each other. He stamps that feeling down quickly and feels immediately guilty for having it. 

He’s at school, isn’t he? That’s far more than he ever could’ve asked for, or dared to want. Close friendships like James’ with Sleep Talker were never in the cards for him whether he was here or not. 

Besides, he still can’t for the life of him remember this boy’s name. Not a good starting place for friendship.

“What’re you doing up, anyway?” the nameless boy asks.

“I have trouble falling asleep.”

“All the time?”

“No, only once in a blue moon.”

He imagines he can hear Mum in his head, saying _Oh, very funny._

“Well, that’s no problem. Just pretend you’re on a boat.”

“Pretend…do what?”

“Andromeda showed me when I was really little. It works, trust me.” He flops onto his back again. A moment later he lifts his head up from the pillow to look at Remus expectantly. “Well? Go on.”

“Oh…alright.” Rather confused, Remus climbs back into his own bed, lays down, and pulls the covers over himself. “What’re we doing?”

“Shush. You’ve got to be quiet for it to work.”

“Er, alright.”

“Now,” says the sleep-talker, and his voice is softer and smoother now than it was when he was actually asleep. “All you’ve got to do is shut your eyes and picture a boat. As in, a big pirate ship. So? Are you picturing it?”

“I thought I was supposed to be quiet.”

“Oh, right. Well. Really try to picture the ship. It’s rocking on the sea, and the sun’s shining and there aren’t any clouds at all…”

The sleep-talker keeps talking. While Remus had started out feeling very stupid indeed laying there thinking about boats while a near-stranger narrated, he finds himself becoming more and more relaxed. He feels his limbs go heavy and he sinks into the softness of his bed. He hadn’t realised how very soft it was…

“So, you’ve got your ship. Now you pretend to be on it. It’s easy, promise. Just think about the rocking, and going up and down on the waves…if you think about it hard enough you start to feel it. As though you’re there, not just imagining.”

It’s funny, but as his thoughts go fuzzier and fuzzier Remus swears he can feel it. It’s very soothing…the moon’s nowhere near him and his pirate ship, it can’t get him here…

“Think about that. Just keep picturing it.”

Whoever this Andromeda person is, he thinks peacefully, she’s a very smart woman…and the sleep-talker has such an exceptionally pleasant voice, it’s very nice…too bad Remus still can’t remember what his name is…Tomorrow morning at breakfast he’ll learn that it’s Sirius, learn it from a screaming letter, but he doesn’t know that yet…

With the moon and all the fears that come with it swept gently away, he sleeps.

 

***

 

Though he’s so nervous he doubts he’ll be able to swallow a bite, Peter is thrilled when the next morning James and Sirius wait for him before going down to breakfast. He still can’t believe his luck— on his first day at school he has not one but _two_ friends. 

What’s even more astounding to him is the type of friends they are. Peter was never popular in school. He’s quiet and anxious. His voice goes all squeaky and stuttery when he’s nervous, which is an awful lot of the time. He was always very good at maths, but you wouldn’t know it from the marks he got on exams and things. Most people assumed he was stupid. 

James and Sirius don’t, though. The duo (it seems unbelievable now that the two of them only met yesterday, they already seem to walk in step and finish sentences for each other) happily include him in their conversation as the three of them walk down to the Great Hall, as if he were every bit as cool as them. And they _are_ cool, there’s no doubt about it. For starters, they’re both much better looking than he is. They don’t look alike at all— James’ impressively messy black hair compared to Sirius’ well-behaved waves, James’ dark complexion to Sirius’ papery one— but they both carry themselves with confidence and ease. 

And they don’t get nervous about anything. Sirius’ discovery of a Howler in the morning post doesn’t seem to surprise him, or phase him at all. A woman’s voice booms through the Great Hall, screaming something about _blood traitors_ and _filth_ and _the house of your fathers_ , but, to Peter’s utter amazement, Sirius just leans his face on his hand and grins lazily. Looking at him you’d think he was only amused. It’s very impressive.

Peter wishes he had just a scrap of that confidence as the three of them head up the grand staircase to class. His stomach is churning unpleasantly and he’s so jumpy that a girl’s voice calling, “Excuse me!” sends his books tumbling out of his arms.

Scrambling for his things, he watches from the floor as a girl he recognizes walks briskly down the corridor toward them. “Excuse me,” she says again.

One foot on the first step of the next flight of stairs, James turns around. “What?”

“You’re all first year Gryffindors too, right?”

“Yeah,” says James. Peter notices that this girl is very pretty, with bright eyes and shiny red hair. He supposes that James has noticed the same thing when James sticks out his right hand to shake. His left goes into his hair, mussing it. “James Warren Bhargava Potter the First,” he says importantly. “Who’re you?”

She lets go of his hand rather quickly. “Lily Evans. Listen, Transfiguration is just down this corridor, you’re going the wrong way.”

He musses his hair again. “Miss Evans, you’re mistaken. It’s on the fourth floor.”

“It isn’t,” says Lily shortly. “Don’t call me ‘Miss’.”

“Alright, ‘Evans’ it is,” says James. “You should follow us, you don’t want to be late on your first day.”

“No I don’t, so I’m going back the way I came from.” She turns on her heel and walks away.

“Hang on— Evans! Hey, Evans!” But she’s already disappeared around a corner. 

Sirius rolls his eyes. “You don’t say ‘the First’ if there’s only one of you.”

“It sounds more distinguished.”

“What’re you trying to sound distinguished for? I saw you stuff a kipper up your nose ten minutes ago.”

He doesn’t answer, but _hmph_ s with great dignity. Before anyone can say anything else a new set of footsteps comes up the grand staircase. It’s the other boy from their dormitory, looking at them funny.

Sirius leans against the bannister, nonchalant. “Hello there. Sleep alright?”

“I thought Transfiguration was that way?” the boy says, pointing behind him.

James crosses his arms. “Bet you heard that from Evans, then? She’s spreading lies. Acting like she knows everything when she—”

“Who?” 

James opens his mouth but is cut off by Sirius, who’s smiling warmly. “Don’t ask, Remus.” Sirius reaches out to take his wrist. “Come on, walk with us.”

Remus looks a little surprised, but obliges. The four of them head up the stairs, James at the lead. 

 

***

 

After their third walk around the entire fourth floor, it becomes apparent that Lily Evans was right. James appears to be in denial. Peter shares a worried look with Remus, who looks like he too would rather hex off his own toenails than be the one to point this out. Thankfully, Sirius points it out for them.

“We’re lost.”

“We’re not _lost_ , silly git, we’re just in the wrong place,” snaps James. “There’s a difference.”

They begin their fourth round of the whole floor while James and Sirius bicker.

“No there’s not.”

“There is! ‘Lost’ means you don’t know where you are.”

“Where are we, then?”

“We’re on the fourth floor and we’re _about_ to find the Transfiguration room, if you’d just shut up for—”

“It’s not here, it’s on the first floor like that girl said. We should just go back there.” 

“Fine, fine, we’ll just—”

“Unless there’s some other Transfiguration class just for speccy weirdos. That might be up here, let’s keep looking.”

“‘Speccy’? Now, that’s just rude.”

“Well you _are_.”

“My glasses are way cool.”

“Name one cool person who wears glasses.”

Peter cuts in with, “Clark Kent?”

“Who’s that?”

“He… never mind.”

Peter’s wondering to himself whether James might like to borrow some of his comic books sometime—he thinks he would rather like Clark Kent, all things considered— when Remus says, “Has anybody noticed that we haven’t passed any stairs in a while?”

They all stop walking. To their left is a large gap with a steep drop down several stories, where a staircase should be, that is distinctly lacking a staircase.

“Did it…” says Remus slowly, “…move?”

James says a curse word that makes a nearby suit of armour gasp. “Now what do we do? That was the only staircase up here!”

Peter looks at his watch. Class has just started; the churning in his stomach gets worse.

“You know,” says Sirius, “Andromeda told me that Hogwarts has a bunch of hidden passageways— secret staircases and things. We’ll just find one of those.”

“That’s a splendid plan, Sirius,” says James scathingly, “except that those _secret_ staircases are, in fact, _secret_. How will we ever find one?”

“Wait!” calls Peter. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he just saw something miraculous: a ghost floating down the corridor, pausing, and turning to float right through a dusty old tapestry on the wall. Of course ghosts float through walls all the time around here, but something about the way the ghost stopped and picked out _that spot_ seemed very particular…

“Look behind that tapestry!”

“What?”

“Trust me, I— I think it’s—“

Their footsteps echo through the empty corridor, they reach the tapestry, James yanks it aside. Peter’s heart leaps happily. He was right: a narrow, rickety-looking staircase slants down from where they stand. 

“Far out!” James yelps as he forges ahead. “Told you you were brilliant, Pete!” 

He, Remus, and Sirius race down the stairs after James. Peter’s still glowing inside from the excitement of their adventure and from the pride of his achievement when they’re stopped by a yelp of pain.

“What in Merlin’s name…“

“James?” calls Sirius. Peter hears his rushed footsteps ahead. Then: “Lads, you’ll want to take a look at this.”

He and Remus run the rest of the way down to them and are met with a very odd sight indeed. James has hitched up the bottom of his robes to reveal his foot, sunk up to the ankle into the solid wood of the step itself. 

“I dunno, I was running and it got stuck or something, I can’t move it— stop laughing, Black, it isn’t funny!”

“It really is, though.”

Peter’s glow was short-lived; the nerves are back. “What should we do?”

The four of them look at each other for a moment. Finally, Remus says, “Pull him out?”

It’s a solid enough plan, but it proves to be difficult in its execution. Every time Sirius tries to yank him out by the shoulders James makes a pained noise; Sirius is too distracted telling him to stop acting like a baby to get enough leverage. Meanwhile, Remus’ attempts to somehow dislodge the foot by kicking repeatedly at the step are going nowhere, and Peter, who doesn’t know what to do with himself and feels very useless, pulls halfheartedly at Sirius’ elbow. But then, for the second time in the last few minutes he sees something that might just save them—

“Er, excuse me?” Peter calls down the stairs. The same ghost he saw floating through the tapestry earlier has just entered back into the stairway with a bounce, but he doesn’t hear him.

Remus follows his gaze. “Pardon me,” he calls after the ghost, and his voice doesn’t crack like Peter’s had, “Sorry, but we’re in a very tight spot, could you please help us?”

It’s not until after the ghost swoops up to them in a dramatic arc and grins evilly that Peter has the thought that this mightn’t have been the greatest idea. 

“Help the ickle firsties?” says the ghost, narrowing beady black eyes. “Yes, I will help, oh yes, Peevsie lives to serve—“ 

And before any of them can say anything the ghost sweeps over their heads, bobs behind them, and gives one big shove. Or at least that’s what Peter assumes happens; what he experiences is a sensation like being pushed into a freezing cold lake before hurtling forward and tumbling headlong down a flight of stairs. Somewhere below, the ghost is cackling maniacally. 

The four of them land in a pile at the bottom. They all take a moment to groan in pain and assess their injuries. All of them, that is, except Remus, who with remarkable calm gets to his feet, straightens his robes, and addresses the ghost.

“That was really rude,” he says pleasantly. “You should apologize. And also tell us how to get to the first floor, if you would. We’re late for class, you see.”

The ghost’s cackles cut off abruptly and his beady eyes widen. It’s hard to tell, but Peter thinks he might look shocked. Has a student ever demanded an apology before?

“Oh yes,” croons the ghost, “Oh yes, Peevsie’s sorry, so very very— _sorry!_ ” The last word is punctuated by the soft _thwack_ of a large piece of chalk hitting Remus squarely on the nose.

Behind him, Sirius jumps to his feet. “Time to go,” he says, grabs Remus around the elbow, and takes off down the corridor with him in tow. Peter leaps up from the floor with James and they follow at a sprint. 

The ghost, though, hasn’t given up. He flies behind them, hurling chalk at their backs and cackling. “COME BACK, FIRSTIES! COME BAAACK!”

“This— is not— how I imagined— my first day,” pants James. Running harder than he’s ever run in his life, Peter only has the breath to nod. 

“Quick!” yells Sirius, who’s still pulling Remus by the arm. “In here!” He flings the door open, and one after the other they pile into the room, panting, tripping over their robes.

“I can’t…” Sirius pants at Remus between big gulps of air, “believe…you told off a poltergeist.”

Nearby, someone clears their throat. The four boys turn around.

In their need to flee from the chalk-throwing ghost, none of them had bothered to pay attention to what room they had just charged into. This one is full of their fellow first year Gryffindors. And at the front of the room stands Professor McGonagall, looking very displeased.

“I don’t suppose,” she says crisply, with a glance at her role call sheet, “that you four are Black, Lupin, Pettigrew, and Potter?”

It’s only natural that James, their uncontested leader by now, is the one to step forward. Still gasping for breath, he straightens up and says, “Yes Professor, I’m James Wa—”

“Sit down, Potter.” Professor McGonagall studies them from over the top of her spectacles and Peter has the horrible feeling that she’s reading his mind. _I’m very very sorry,_ he thinks as loudly as possible. She indicates several empty seats near the front, next to a familiar head of red hair. “Hopefully Miss Evans will be able to catch you up on what you’ve missed.” 

She returns seamlessly to the lesson. Lily Evans shoots them all a sharp look before turning back to the blackboard. Peter feels about as awful as he can ever remember feeling as the four of them walk through the middle of the room to the very front and take their seats. 

But then James, at the far end, leans over to catch their attention. Beaming, he mouths _That was amazing!_ Next to him Sirius gives an answering grin, and Remus a slow smile. 

Peter can’t help the smile that cracks across his own face. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel awful at all.

 

***

 

Sirius’ first day at school is fantastic. He makes friends and he gets in trouble twice before he even sits down in a classroom. All around, a great day. He thinks he’s going to like it here a lot. It would’ve been an entirely perfect day if it hadn’t ended with him jolting upright in bed, covered in cold sweat, facing a very freaked out Remus.

His heart is hammering in his ears when Sirius asks, “Again?”

In the semi-darkness he sees Remus nod. “It was worse this time.”

Even though he can’t recall what he was dreaming about, Sirius could’ve guessed that tonight he sounded especially alarming. He feels distinctly rattled and shaky but doesn’t remember why. His skin feels clammy.

It’s really odd. Very rarely are his dreams anything special, or at all scary. Why two nights in a row? 

He expresses this to Remus, who shrugs.

“Maybe you’re nervous.”

Sirius scoffs. “No I’m not. I’m a Gryffindor.”

“It’d be okay if you were. Have you ever been away from home before?”

That depends, he thinks to himself. What counts as ‘away’? He’s been to Andromeda and her sisters’ house a lot, and he and Reg used to go out adventuring in Muggle London all the time, but—

“Not really. But I’m not _scared_. That’s stupid. I never liked that place anyway.”

“Alright,” says Remus. He gets back into his own bed and turns over. 

Sirius is very much awake; he doesn’t understand why he still feels so funny and clammy and shaky. “You’re going to sleep, then?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Even to his own ears he doesn’t sound convincing.

“Alright.” Remus closes his eyes. 

Sirius follows suit. Nothing happens.

A long time passes. And then—

“Sirius.”

He jumps. “What?”

“You aren’t sleeping.”

“Neither are you.”

“Well, I can’t fall asleep if you don’t.”

“How can you even tell?”

“You breathe loudly.”

He makes an indignant sound. “What am I going to do about it, genius?”

“Just think about boats.”

He still feels sick.

“I don’t think that’ll work tonight.”

“Why not? It seems to work wonderfully.”

“It just won’t, alright?” 

A lot more time goes by. Then there are some soft footsteps, and Remus’ voice right next to his bed.

“Budge up.”

“What?”

“If you can’t sleep and I can’t sleep we might as well be awake together. Go on.”

If Sirius were more awake (and less shaky and nauseated) he might protest, but as it is he moves over on the wide mattress and makes space for Remus to climb in. Remus has carried over his own pillow from his bed, and he settles in next to him. 

Side by side they lie there looking at the four poster’s canopy, making no pretense of trying any further to fall asleep. It’s pleasant, Sirius thinks. Just hearing the steady breathing of somebody next to you is relaxing— it reminds him of when he and Regulus were smaller and would share beds. Many minutes go by before Sirius feels compelled to say anything.

“I still can’t believe you shouted at a poltergeist.”

“I didn’t shout,” comes the response. “I was perfectly polite. He was the nasty one.”

That makes him smile, and it’s a warm feeling. “You’re always polite, are you?”

“Well, I wasn’t raised by wolves, was I? My mother taught me well.”

“I can’t imagine what _my_ mum was raised by,” Sirius mutters. Banshees, probably. “What’s she like, then? Your mum?”

“She’s a secondary school teacher.”

“Secondary?”

“It’s school for teenage Muggles.”

“She’s a Muggle, then?”

“Yeah. My dad’s a wizard, but it’s just she and I.”

That makes Sirius feel funny for no good reason. He knows from Andromeda that all the stuff his parents say about blood purity is rot. And Remus isn’t even his first half-blood friend; Peter’s mum is Muggle-born. This feels different, though. Remus’ wizard dad isn’t with them, so his whole life before coming to school has been Muggle.

He feels odd about how very different their lives must be. 

“If she’s a Muggle, why’d she name you ‘Remus’?” he asks. “That’s a name like a pureblood brat, like mine. Not like a Muggle teacher’s son.”

“Mum’s family has studied classics for generations. She was getting her PhD when she met Dad,” Remus says, and there’s a note of pride in his voice. “It’s a bit of a family tradition to get names from the Greco-Roman canon.”

Sirius hasn’t got a clue what that means, but he goes on anyway. “Has she a funny name as well?”

“Her name’s Rhea. It’s from a story.”

“Who’s Rhea? Has she got a son named Remus?”

“She surely does,” he answers, and it sounds like he's smiling. “I haven’t got a twin, though.”

“Twin?”

“It’s from the story, it’s nothing,” he says. “I did have a sister once, sort of.”

“Sort of? How has somebody got ‘sort of’ a sister?”

“Well, legally speaking she wasn’t alive, she was stillborn. So, she’s only sort of.”

Sirius doesn’t know how to respond, so he tries being honest. “That’s awful.”

“It was years ago.”

Sirius turns onto his side to face him and for a second he doesn’t know why Remus gasps. Then he sees that his sleeve has ridden up.

“Nah, don’t worry about that, it’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, pushing his sleeve back down. “From our fall down the stairs this morning.”

Much to Sirius’ annoyance, a look of horror is on Remus’ face as he watches the place on his arm where the big mottled bruises just disappeared. “That looks really awful, you should go and—“

“Butt out Remus, it’s fine,” he snaps. “Like I said, I’m bad at clotting. I can look after myself, I’m not a baby.”

“I didn’t say you were. I’m only suggesting that—”

“Just leave it,” he says, and however he says it makes Remus recoil a little.

“Alright.”

Remus goes quiet and Sirius feels bad.

“Besides, I landed on James and you hit the floor. You must have it way worse than me.”

“Not particularly. Anyway, I’ve got a high tolerance for pain. I don’t really mind.” Once again Sirius hears the smile in his voice. He likes the sound. “A few scrapes are worth it, for a good adventure.”

The next morning Sirius doesn’t remember what they talked about after that, but he does notice that he fell asleep effortlessly, without any boats or cold sweat at all.

 

***


	2. electric warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sounds forever away, doesn’t it? 1972?”
> 
> “Only if you can’t count.”

 

 

***

 

By the end of his first month at school, Remus has learned all sorts of things about his new friends. Never having had friends to know things about before, he has fun collecting these details. Some of them are simple, like how James explains jokes until they’re no longer funny, and how Peter’s handwriting is so dreadful because he was born left-handed but his granddad made him use his right. 

Others are more complex.

James, for instance, is a natural leader. Two Fridays ago he decided that in celebration of their first week they ought to spend breakfast making things at the Slytherin table float away whenever somebody tries to touch them. Peter couldn’t get the charm down and Remus politely declined to join, but James and Sirius spent the whole meal discreetly pointing their wands and giggling. After half an hour the air above the far table was crowded with dishes and cups, the odd schoolbook, and somebody’s toad, all floating gently toward the celestial ceiling. The two of them got detention for it (their second at that point), but neither seemed to mind.

Peter is somebody who Remus sees a lot of himself in. The two of them bond quickly through the unspoken agreement that the two-headed monster that is James-and-Sirius is a force neither of them want to try to reckon with, and that the path of least resistance involves going along with whatever harebrained scheme they’ve come up with that day. Sometimes that means doing dumb things like sneaking into the Transfiguration classroom and loosing into the corridor all the beetles that were destined to become buttons, or starting a short-lived, ill-advised ‘dueling club’ in the boy’s bathroom. Other times, though, it’s things that Remus feels worse about.

It was only their second day at school when they had their first run-in with Snape. 

While Remus quickly recognised him and his friend as the two who’d discussed werewolves on the train, he wondered what reason James and Sirius had for hating Snape. It was prompted by nothing Remus can discern when James made a beeline across the slowly-filling Transfiguration classroom to stand over Snape’s shoulder, scoff, snatch the book out his hand, and hold it over his head.

“‘ _Advanced Curse Theory_ ’— bit of light reading, Snivellus?” 

Snape didn’t say anything, just glared down at his shoes. In the seat beside him Lily Evans, another Gryffindor, shot daggers at James with her eyes. 

“Give it back.”

James scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Sure, Evans.” He made a show of lowering the book, letting Snape reach up for it, only to wheel around and throw it across the classroom. Sirius caught it. 

“Give it _back!”_

But neither of them paid her any attention; they tossed the book back and forth, laughing, until Professor McGonagall walked in. Remus asked Peter about it the next day when they were paired up in Herbology.

“What’s James got against that Slytherin bloke?”

Peter was engrossed in pruning their dittany plant and shrugged a shoulder. “Dunno. Must have a good reason or he wouldn’t mess with him so much.”

“Even so…” 

Peter looked up at him then, eyebrows raised. “You wanna tell him off for it?”

No he really didn’t, and he never does. Remus feels bad about that, but at least Peter understands.

Sirius, for some reason, is a bit trickier than the other two to get to know. Remus knows some simple things— Sirius can’t sit in a chair without leaning it back on two legs (he’s only tipped over twice so far), he’s got a quick temper, he’s rather vain about his hair. 

The puzzling thing about Sirius, though, is how sensitive he is to certain topics. He bruises like a banana but nobody’s allowed to mention it, and he ignored all the funny looks professors gave him the first week when they read his name aloud. When James asked about the couple of older girls at the Slytherin table who tried to talk to Sirius one morning Sirius told him to shut up and changed the subject. Remus remembers that one of the girls did rather look like him. 

He doesn’t like being a Black. Remus understands: he doesn’t much like what he is either. 

He covers his scars religiously. He’s gotten used to getting up before the others to dress in the morning, to keeping his sleeves rolled down and wearing high-collared jumpers on the weekends. Before the full he told his friends that he was leaving school to visit his mother, who’s horribly ill. He doesn’t know how many more months he can use that before they get suspicious. He shouldn’t have gotten such clever friends.

Remus worries every day about that cleverness. How long until they work out the truth?

 

***

 

The first Friday of October is sunny and unseasonably warm. It’s got Sirius, James, and Peter all in excellent moods. Remus, though, seems tired and withdrawn, which upsets Sirius for some reason. It’s bothering him a lot and he can’t figure out why. 

But it’s not as if Sirius understands anything about his friendship with Remus. 

For the first time in his life Sirius has made friends who aren’t family members, and he’s learned that there are different types of friends. There’s Peter, who’s his best mate, and there’s James, who’s his _best_ best mate, and there’s the group of Gryffindor boys in the year ahead of them who they’ll throw a Quaffle around with on the front lawn sometimes or compete with in bannister-sliding races, and there are the girls in their year who Sirius gets along with quite well but who James always acts like a stupid idiot in front of. And there’s Remus. 

“What do you keep bothering him for?” James says, watching Sirius magic yet another parchment ball across the classroom at Remus’ head. Professor Flitwick has taken to splitting up their four onto different sides of the room, but it never seems to help much.

“There’s something off about him.”

“And annoying him’s gonna make it better?”

“Just trying to get a laugh out of him, is all.”

Rolling his eyes, James goes back to fiddling with the shards of mirror they’re meant to be mending, and Sirius looks over at Remus again. 

On the other side of the classroom Remus runs a hand over his face, rubs his temples. He really does look rather miserable. Sirius frowns. He tears off a bigger scrap of parchment, gets out a quill, and writes:

_How many James Potters does it take to fix a mirror?_

He folds it carefully into an aeroplane, flicks his wand, sets it sailing. It lands on Remus’ desk; Sirius waits patiently while he opens it, reads it. When Remus looks up and meets his gaze across the classroom there are dark circles under his eyes. He gives a puzzled shrug.

Sirius folds another aeroplane and flies it over. He watches Remus read:

_I dunno, he won’t stop checking his hair in the pieces._

A startled laugh falls out of Remus, quickly muffled into his hand, and Sirius grins. It’s only made better when Remus happens to look up at the exact moment that James picks out another large chunk of mirror, glances at it ever-so-subtly, and rakes a hand up the back of his head. Remus dissolves into stifled laughter and Sirius glows with victory.

James drops the shard. “What’re you so happy about?”

“Nothing,” he says. “We should do something fun today. Raise everybody’s spirits.”

“Remus’ spirits, you mean.”

“Yeah, and everybody’s.”

James thinks, looks out the window at the clear blue sky and the sunlight sparkling on the surface of the lake. His eyes light up. “I know!”

“What?”

“How anti-skiving off Herbology are you?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Good.”

 

***

 

They follow the other first years out the double doors and down the front lawn in the sunshine, on their way, Peter assumes, to Herbology. But when everybody turns right, starting the trek to the greenhouses, Peter’s tugged sideways.

“This way!” James says. He and Sirius split away from the group and, without a word of explanation, take off in the opposite direction.

He and Remus look at each other. Remus shrugs. They follow after.

They run down the grassy slope toward the lake, tumbling to a halt under the beech tree where they sometimes do their homework. It’s hot for the time of year. The sun shines cloudlessly down on them in their black robes, and Peter rubs at the reddening he already feels on the back of his neck. 

Remus swipes sweaty hair out of his eyes and asks, “What are we skiving off for today, then?”

“D’you see this weather? We won’t get another swimming day like this for _months_ ,” James says, and he gets to work yanking his robes over his head. 

Sirius only briefly gets tangled in his. “Race you to that rock!”

“I’ll take that bet!” James replies, sounding very dignified for a bloke only in his shorts. The two chase each other out into the shallows, crowing and shouting and trying to push the other over. 

Peter’s stomach falls. As a rule he doesn’t do stuff that you have to take your shirt off for; the boys in his village who used to pick on him made sure of that. 

“Oy, you lot waiting on a written invitation?” Sirius calls. “Come on!”

Peter swallows down his nerves. It _is_ hot, and a swim would be loads of fun. He pulls his robes off, sets them in a wad under the beech tree, and wades out toward the others. 

Who cares, right? His friends would never make fun of him. 

“Pete, come look at this!” James shouts from next to the rock. “I found a nest of grindylows!”

“Where?” Sirius says.

“Right here, look.” 

Sirius wades in closer and cranes his neck toward the spot of water James is pointing at. James grabs him by the hair and dunks him under headfirst. He comes back up again, flailing and shouting, while James cracks up.

“ _You’re a dead man, Potter!_ ”

While the dynamic duo set about drowning each other, Peter looks to his side by habit, expecting Remus to be there. He isn’t. When he turns round he sees Remus edging quietly out of the shade of the beech and back toward the castle. Peter’s puzzled by it, but he isn’t the one who calls out:

“Hey! Remus!”

Sirius stands up straight in the water, quest to dunk James forgotten, eyes fixed on the shore. “Where’re you going?”

With a polite smile Remus shoulders his bag. “Think I ought to go to class. My marks aren’t as good as you lot’s.”

“You have great marks!”

But Remus just smiles again and gives a wave before walking off.

Sirius is sulky for a good bit after he leaves. “The whole idea was to cheer him up,” he says. “Dunno what’s got him looking so awful.”

“Bet he’s just tired,” James says, distracted. The Giant Squid has got two of its tentacles stuck out of the water, waving in a friendly sort of way, and James sways along with them. “Stop fussing, you’re worse than my mum.”

“Hey, er,” Peter says, then stops. He isn’t sure how to voice the feeling he’s gotten.

“Yeah?” 

“D’you ever— ever feel like…I dunno. Like Remus isn’t telling us something?”

Sirius leans back against the rock, wet hair slicked ink-black over his face. “Like what?”

“I dunno. I just get this feeling sometimes.”

Sirius looks at him for a second. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I think you’re both daft,” James says. Then the Giant Squid reaches out a tentacle to pluck his glasses off his face and begin a game of keep-away, and nobody brings the subject up again. 

 

***

 

“It’s your go.”

“Oh, sorry.” Remus glances at his hand of cards and puts one down at random.

A halo of empty space has formed around their table in the common room while they play cards. They play a game of their own invention that’s gotten more complex as the weeks go by, and more violent; James’ old Exploding Snap deck has taken on a mysterious sentience that causes cards to explode spontaneously when somebody makes a stupid move. 

The other Gryffindors have learned to give them space. The only people sitting nearby are a couple of seventh years doing complicated spellwork over what appear to be an ordinary Muggle toaster and turntable. 

“You look awful,” James tells Remus. He slaps down a card. “I don’t suppose your mum’s contagious?”

Remus only ‘returned’ yesterday. “No, no, I’m fine,” he says. “Just a bit of a headache.” 

_Just a lot of an everything-ache_ , a little voice in his mind corrects.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Peter says, fanning a card that’s begun to smoke, “what type of illness has your mum got?”

“It’s a congenital blood disorder.” Remus has found that using medical-sounding words like ‘congenital’ tends to prevent further questions.

It doesn’t work on Peter. “What do you do when you visit her?” 

“Help her get to doctor’s appointments and stuff. She can’t leave the flat without help.”

“What’s she do when you aren’t there?” 

“Stays inside, mostly.”

“But I thought you said she was a secondary school teacher?”

“Lay off,” James cuts in. “Obviously he doesn’t wanna talk about it. Black, we’re up.”

He gives Sirius a look across the table that means absolutely nothing to Remus but must make sense to Sirius, because he nods and sets down a card. The game’s permanent team breakdown really isn’t fair; Peter and Remus haven’t got telepathic powers like those two.

“Sorry, I’m just curious,” Peter says.

Remus was afraid of that. “It’s alright.”

It was only a matter of time before one of them got curious. He wonders if this is because of the swimming incident. His excuse was thin (he’s never let such things as marks get in the way before), but he reckons it was easier to swallow than _Oh, those? I got in a fight with a bear as a child._

_And a lawnmower. Several times._

“Good thing you’re back,” Sirius says. He sprawls himself sideways on the sofa, legs kicked out over Remus’ knees. “You can help us with our newest plan.”

“And what’s that?”

“We’re starting a tradition,” says James. “A big, extra-special prank to celebrate Hallowe’en.”

“Oh? What’ll that be?”

“Dunno yet. Probably set off a bunch of Dungbombs someplace.”

“That’s boring,” Sirius complains. “We set off Dungbombs all the time, we need something big.”

“You shot down my crickets idea, that was big,” James says.

“Yeah, because I don’t want live _crickets_ in my _dinner_.”

“There’d be crickets in everybody’s dinner, that’s the joke.”

“It’s disgusting.”

James imitates him in a high-pitched voice and dodges the heavily sparking card Sirius throws at him like a frisbee. “Have you any better ideas, princess?”

“Better ideas than live CRICKETS in my FOOD?” Sirius says, full of characteristically theatrical outrage. “I could think of something in—”

“Well, you know what we could do…”

They stop bickering to look at Remus. “What?” says James.

“I agree the crickets are rather, er, distasteful,” Remus says, “but I’m fairly certain Professor Kettleburn has some nifflers.”

“What’s a niffler?”

“Little creatures, found in mines mostly—”

Sirius smiles at him. “How d’you know about every weird animal there is?”

_You’d read up on magical creatures too if you were one,_ is what Remus wants to say. “Books,” is what he says.

“What are they?” Peter asks.

“Small furry things. Quite cute, actually. People use them to find treasure because they’re extremely fast at digging, and love shiny things.”

“Shiny things?”

“Yes, they’re worse than magpies. They wreak havoc anywhere there’s shiny stuff, including—”

“Including gold cups and plates?” James cuts in.

He smiles. “I should think so.”

Sirius lets out a shout of laughter. He leans forward over his own knees, still draped over Remus’ lap, to playfully muss Remus’ hair. “Genius, this one!”

“See, you’re nice to _him_.”

“Yeah, cause he’s a genius,” Sirius says, still smiling at Remus. “You’ll help, yeah?”

“Well—”

“Will you be here?” Peter asks.

“What?” Remus says.

“You won’t be home, will you? Do you know when you go back yet?”

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, yes, I won’t be going until next month.”

“Is there a particular schedule you keep?”

“Merlin’s pants, Pettigrew,” James says. A card in his hand shoots off a few half-hearted sparks and he flicks it down. “What’s with all the questions?”

“Nothing, I, I’m just wondering, is all.”

Remus is casting around for a distraction when one is, blessedly, dropped into his lap: a clamorous, metallic _BANG._

“ _Alice_ ,” James yelps. He turns in his chair to face the seventh years with the toaster and turntable, enclosed in a cloud of smoke. “What’re you doing over there?”

Alice Higgs is a prefect and has always been very nice to them. Remus doesn’t know the other girl’s name, the one who says, “Rich, coming from you lot,” but he thinks she rather has a point.

“It’s a Muggle Studies project,” Alice says, preoccupied with fanning the smoke pluming from the turntable. “We’ve got to make these run by magic, and it’s not exactly a walk in the park creating a power source for something that’s—”

“Wait, so you’re _making_ electricity?” Peter’s voice squeaks.

Sirius snickers. “Pete loves electricity. He’d give his right hand for a lesson like that.”

“You can come have a look if you like,” Alice says. “Right, Doreen?”

The other girl’s toaster has started to spark like a miniature Roman candle, so she only nods. With an expression like Christmas has come two months early, Peter scurries over to their table.

“Eh, whatever.” James flops his cards down. They smoke dejectedly. “You lot were losing anyway.”

“As always,” says Sirius. “What’ll the score be now, then?”

“One hundred and thirty-nine to ninety eight.”

“Really? I thought they’d hit one hundred last week. Remus, do you remember?”

Remus picks up the nearest thing to read and hides his face behind it. “No, not at all.” Those two can start a squabble even when they’re both on the winning team. He likes to stay out of the middle.

The thing he’s picked up turns out to be the _Daily Prophet_ from this morning, discarded by somebody after breakfast. It’s not terribly interesting. There’s a large piece on a recent scandal involving singer Celestina Warbeck and a vampire, and a horrifically dull column titled _Buying Goblin-Made: Is It Worth It?_

It’s not until a while later, when Alice and Peter are talking about magnetic fields and James and Sirius are talking about Quidditch (Sirius is listening to James talk about Quidditch), that he finds anything shocking.

“Somebody’s blown up a church,” he says.

Sirius sounds bored. “A what?” 

“A church, it’s a place where Muggles, well they—never mind. But it’s odd, it’s all the way in the back, you’d think—“

“Remus?”

He jumps; he didn’t hear Alice come up behind him. “Would you mind if I had a look at that?” she asks.

“Of course.” He hands it over. “I was finished with it, you can—“

But she’s already looked away from him and turned toward Doreen. “Have you seen Gid anywhere?”

“He’s at breakfast, I suppose. Alice, we should—“

Too late; she’s already crossed the room. The portrait swings shut behind her.

“Not sure what that’s about,” says Doreen. She packs up her toaster. “Well, I think I’ll go as well…Peter, feel free to watch us work whenever you like, though I expect it’ll get boring pretty quickly…”

Doreen’s barely climbed through the portrait hole before James starts snickering. “Our own little Peter, wooing Alice Higgs with _science_.”

Peter erupts into a blotchy blush. “That’s not—that’s not what I—”

“Dream on, mate. Everybody knows she and Frank Longbottom have been an item since the dawn of time.”

Sirius looks up. “The Hufflepuff Keeper? Huh.”

“Yeah. He’s a great player, sixth year I think—”

“She’s _seventeen_ , I’m not…” Peter mumbles weakly. “I wasn’t…wasn’t even thinking about…” 

But James has launched into a monologue on the strengths and weaknesses of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team and neither he nor Sirius pay attention to him.

Remus is concerned, but not about Alice or her boyfriend’s Keeping skills. It strikes him as very strange that such a thing was tucked away in the very back of the paper. Even stranger was the look on Alice’s face. He isn’t sure what to think about all of it.

But Remus is eleven years old and he’s got other things on his mind. He’s forgotten about the whole thing by lunchtime.

 

***

 

“I thought somebody was sending a letter,” Peter says.

“Why would all four of us come up here to send a letter?” 

“Makes more sense than this does,” Remus mumbles.

James goes back to craning his head out the window. It’s icy and bitter cold in the Owlery— none of the windows have glass and it’s December— but it’s got the distinct advantage of overlooking the courtyard. There’s a group of seventh years milling about down there. Sitting ducks, they are.

“Go on, try again,” Sirius says. He passes James an owl nut from the box and watches as James shuts one eye, aims, and tosses it down. Nobody in the courtyard reacts. “Missed again.”

“I see that, thanks.”

Remus perches in the windowsill next to theirs. “Is there really nothing better we could be doing?” 

“It’s the last day, what else is there to do?”

“We’ve been out of Dungbombs for weeks,” Sirius says.

“Y’know what we should do,” says James. He pauses to flick another owl nut down onto the courtyard. Nothing happens. “We should come up with resolutions.”

“For the New Year?”

“No, Black, for Easter.”

Sirius gives him a shove that almost topples him out the window. “Sure. Remus,” he says, “you go first.”

“What? Why me?”

“’Cause I say so.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think, then.”

Remus casts a look around at the hundreds of owls fluttering around the rafters, a thoughtful expression in his brown eyes. Eventually, he shrugs. “I can’t think of one.”

“Well, you’ve got till 1972 to come up with something,” James says. “Sounds forever away, doesn’t it? 1972?”

“Only if you can’t count.”

James returns Sirius’ shove. “What about you, then, smart guy?”

Sirius thinks, sucking absently on the tiny cut on his knuckle. He scratched it on a new quill about an hour ago and it’s been bleeding steadily ever since. Stupid blood, can’t clot properly. “Be as un-Noble and Ancient House of Black as possible,” he decides.

“You’ve done a fairly good job of it so far,” Peter points out. 

“You’re only the first Gryffindor in living _memory_.”

He leans against the windowsill and studies his knuckle, watches the cut slowly bead red again. “Yeah, and that’s brilliant and all, but still. I want…I want something that’s just mine, y’know? Something’s that’s me completely and not them at all.”

“Nice and vague, well done.”

“Shut up. What’s yours?”

“That’s easy,” James says. “I want to get better with women.”

Remus disguises his snort as a cough. He’s decent that way. “Oh?”

“He had a pretty disastrous interaction with Lorraine Sloper yesterday, that one Chaser,” Sirius tells him. “It was hilarious.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“Was so.”

“Y’know how when you compliment a girl’s shirt you say ‘I like your top’?” James says. “Well, then, wouldn’t it make sense that when you compliment her skirt you’d—”

Sirius cuts in. “He told Lorraine he liked her ‘bottom’. Her boyfriend really appreciated it.”

Remus fights to stay straight-faced; Peter doesn’t even bother and giggles.

“It was an innocent mistake! I’ve just got to refine my technique, is all. Pettigrew, your go.”

“Er,” Peter says. He thinks for a bit, then he says. “I, er…I’d like to be braver.”

“Braver? How?”

“Y’know, just. Just in everyday life.”

James nods. “That’s a good one. You do your House proud, son.”

“Let’s seal it, shall we?” says Sirius. He scoops up a handful of owl nuts, holds out the box, waits for James to do the same. Shoulder-to-shoulder they lean out the window, open their fists, and let them fall down to earth. There are scattered yelps from the courtyard below.

“Didn’t miss that time,” James says cheerily.

One of the seventh year boys— a burly one, who even from up here is clearly bigger than James and Sirius put together— looks up, brushing owl nuts from his hair. He spots them and shouts, “Oy!” 

“Time to go,” James says, and together they all run for Gryffindor Tower.

 

***

 

This year James gets what is undoubtedly the greatest Christmas gift ever received by any member of the human race ever.

“It’s brilliant _,_ ” he says for the billionth time. He can’t stop looking at his reflection in the big mirror over the mantle— or, rather, where his reflection would be. He tugs the Cloak from over his face and enjoys the effect of his head apparently floating independently of his body. Not only is it great for stealth, but it can also be used to scare the slime off of Snivellus; it really _is_ the greatest present ever. 

Mum smiles from beside the Christmas tree, sitting on the sofa in her dressing-gown. “Glad you like it.”

“Been in the family for ages,” Dad says. “Thought it was time you had it.”

“Sirius is gonna _freak_.”

“Oh!” Mum claps her hands. “That reminds me— Warren, would you—”

“Yes, right!” Dad gets up and retrieves a thin parcel from under the tree and passes it to James. “Thought you and Sirius might appreciate this.”

When he rips the paper off he finds two plain rectangular mirrors. “I don’t get it,” he says.

“Give him the other one,” Dad explains, “and when you say the other’s name into it you can talk to each other.”

It’s the _second_ greatest Christmas gift ever received by any member of the human race ever.

He races off to owl Sirius his mirror right away. When he comes back into the sitting room, where Mum and Dad sip tea all snuggled up together on the sofa because they’re gross, he says, “We can talk to each other from separate detentions!”

Mum raises her eyebrows. “That wasn’t the intent.”

“We thought he’d appreciate the break from his folks,” Dad says. “How’s he doing? Have they gotten over that spot of bother with the Sorting yet?”

James throws himself down on the rug in front of the fire. “Doubt they’ll ever get over that. He says he’s been wandering round the city a lot.”

“In the middle of winter?” Mum says. “That’s dreadful.”

“Seems to like it better than being shut up in his room,” James says. “He hates being in the house. I think what he likes about walking around in Muggle London is that nobody knows what his surname is.”

“But the other Gryffindors don’t mind who his family is, surely?” Dad asks.

James shrugs. “Nah, but I don’t think that’s it so much. I think he just hates that people can _tell_ , y’know? He’s a spitting image, you should see him and his cousin Bellatrix. It’d be how I’d feel if somebody I looked just like— if, y’know, Mum were famously awful. If Mum had been famously awful for five hundred years.”

Dad makes a sympathetic sound. “Poor lad.”

“We’ll have him here plenty this summer,” Mum says. “We’ll make sure of it.”

“If they’ll let him go,” James says darkly.

 

***

 

Sirius stops in his tracks when he sees it.

The storefront looks like any other little Muggle place in this part of London: red brick, with a crumbling sign that reads “DRYSDELL MUSIC” in faded letters. But propped up outside the door is something he’s never seen before.

It’s a piece of Muggle machinery. Sirius has always been amused by all the mad stuff people come up with without magic. He remembers that time in the television shop with Reg, watching a picture of a man play guitar. But this isn’t a plain grey box, not even close— this, whatever it is, is _beautiful_. 

It’s an intricate tangle of silver pipes wrapped around something black, with wheels on. It looks exciting and very dangerous, and like something his mother would loathe, which of course makes him like it even more. He reaches out a careful hand. The metal is cool to the touch.

Without a second thought, he opens the door to the shop and goes inside.

At first glance it reminds him of a library, but he quickly sees that’s not right. It’s shabbier than any library he’s ever seen, with posters and stickers covering every inch of wall and a sunken, discolored leather couch shoved off to the side. There aren’t bookshelves, but tables and tables of boxes of neat files. Shoved near the couch is a machine it takes him a moment to recognize: the Muggle thing Alice was working on the other week. Strange, discordant music fills the place.

At the counter by the door, a woman puts down a magazine. She’s in her twenties and has a friendly face. Sirius thinks she looks surprised when she asks, “Can I help you, lad?”

“Yes,” he says. “What’s that thing you’ve got outside?”

Now she definitely looks surprised. 

“Sorry, dearie, you’re gonna have to clarify,” she says in her thick accent. She says ‘clarify’ like _clare-eh-foy_.

“The machine outside. What’s it do?”

“The…” She blinks. “My motorbike?”

Sirius has learned enough about Muggle things the last few months to put together the words ‘motor’ and ‘bike’. He’s shocked. “Do you mean that you actually _ride_ that thing?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s _mental_.”

To his surprise, she laughs. “You and me mum are of a mind.”

“How’s it work?”

“It…” She tugs thoughtfully at her sandy-coloured ponytail. “I dunno, there’s loads of science and stuff that—“

“I know all about science,” Sirius says. “My friend Peter told me.”

“Alright,” says the woman, very slowly. _Aaaawlroight._

“Well anyway,” Sirius says, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden, “I just wanted to tell you that I think it’s terrific.”

Her mouth twitches, like she wants to laugh. “Ta. That all you was wanting, then?”

Sirius turns around and looks through the glass door at the grey outside. It’s freezing cold out there, and so warm and pleasant in here. He’s only just getting the warmth back in his fingertips.

The woman seems to read his mind. “Maybe you might wanna look about for a spell?”

He nods. 

For the next few minutes he browses between the tables and leafs aimlessly through the files, which contain square cardboard folders. The little yellow dividers make a satisfying clacking sound when he flips through them. Having seen the sign outside, Sirius gathers that this place sells music to Muggles for them to listen to, but he doesn’t have any idea how that would work. There’s a wireless at Sirius’ house that they listen to sometimes, but he doesn't know how else you get music, especially without magic. He’s afraid to ask the woman; she definitely already thinks he’s funny.

She’s walked around the counter to lean against it on the side closest to Sirius. “So,” she says. “You're not  what I was expecting to get marching in here day after Christmas. What’re you doing, out walking through Islington all on your own?”

Sirius busies himself reading the labels on the clacky yellow dividers, though he’s already discovered them to be mostly gibberish. He really doesn’t want to explain to this lady how walking through anywhere in any kind of weather is bound to be better than staying in that house. After a while, even barricading himself in his room talking to James on their new mirrors doesn’t help any.

He shrugs. “Better than being home.”

“Really? It’s only freezing out there.”

“Sure. Anything’s better than there.”

He tries to say this casually but judging by the woman’s silence he doesn’t succeed. Casting around for any sort of distraction, Sirius walks over to study the posters and pictures on the wall. Then something surprises him.

“That man!” he says, pointing. “I’ve seen him!” On the poster he recognizes the man he and Reg saw on the television in the Muggle shop that one time.

The woman follows his hand and smiles. “Marc Bolan? I should think so, lad.” She indicates the machine by the couch. “I can put him on, if you like.”

With absolutely no idea what she means by this, Sirius nods.

She heads over to a table and starts rifling through the files of cardboard folders. She pulls one out. “Band put out a new one a few months back,” she says while she takes a large and flat something out of the folder and fiddles with the machine. The music that was playing before cuts off abruptly. “I dug it but reviews round here were mixed…well, see how you like it…” One adjustment of the machine later, new sounds fill the room. She gestures him over to the couch.

“You make yourself at home, I’m looking to get some work done back here.” She’s moving back to the counter, but Sirius has already stopped listening to her.

 

***

 

Peter comes back home for the holidays saying “Oh Merlin” because James says it (though James’ variations are often braver—“what in the name of Merlin’s satiny knickers?” and such), and Peter will say just about anything James says. He gets a smack for it from Mum on Christmas morning. 

“Did Merlin die for your sins?”

“But I thought I wasn’t to take the Lord’s name in vain,” he says. She doesn’t have a good answer to that, so she just grumbles at him not to be smart and lights a cigarette with her wand. They sit at the kitchen table while snow falls outside. Tesla winds herself round their feet, waiting for scraps. Granddad’s down the street at Uncle Stanley’s, dropping off gifts.

“What’d you send your friends?” Mum asks. He tells her, excited. There wasn’t much he could do with the little bit of money he had saved in the box under his bed, and he knows the presents aren’t anywhere near as nice as what James and Sirius can afford. He picked them out very carefully, though, and he’s proud of them. For Sirius he picked out a neat bottle of colour-changing ink from a catalog, for James an issue of _The Legion of Super-Heroes_ (one with Superboy; he thinks James will like him), and for Remus—

“Remus,” Mum says. “That’s the one with the sick mother, right?”

“Er. Yeah.”

“What is it she’s got?”

“Er.”

Peter wonders when Remus is going to tell them what’s really going on. He doesn’t know what Remus is hiding, but he knows it’s something.

“Not sure,” Peter answers.

“Has he got a dad?”

“I think he did once. Doesn’t anymore.”

“Poor lad.” She flicks her wand and the dirty dishes float lazily toward the sink. “Let that teach you to be grateful. If I croak tomorrow you’ve still got Granddad and Stanley’s lot. It’s the season for being thankful for your family, you know.”

“Right,” Peter agrees, but he’s distracted. 

He’s been thinking about asking for a long time, and they’re on the subject. When will he get another chance? He said his resolution for the next year was to be braver. Not too early to get started, is it? 

Besides, he’s a Gryffindor now.

“Could you tell me about my dad?" he asks.

Mum looks startled. “Not much to tell, love. I didn't exactly know him long." 

They sit quietly for a little bit. Finally she stubs out her cigarette in a glass and sighs. “He was blond-haired, blue eyed. Thought I was funny." The cat jumps on her lap. She scratches behind Tesla's ears and there's a far away, fond sort of look on her face. 

“Back when I lived in London. See, there was this very rude man in the pub that night," she continues, "and I was playing a trick on him. Every time he'd say something nasty to the bartender— she was a mate of mine, too polite to tell him off herself— I'd turn his whiskey into apple vinegar. Then back again when somebody else tried it.” She laughs quietly. 

Peter clings to every word. He hears faint impressions from men round town sometimes (“That Maddie Pettigrew," they'd say, shaking their heads, “ _quite_ the troublemaker, she was."), but Mum never talks about when she was young; she gets angry when people call her ‘Maddie' nowadays.

“Of course, he was very confused. But your dad was in the pub and he saw what was going on and congratulated me on some nice spellwork. Turns out he'd been Ravenclaw as well, a couple years above me, but I'd never seen him before, somehow.” She shrugs. “About all there is to tell, really."

Peter proceeds with caution before bringing up the big question, the reason he'd asked in the first place.

“Does he know about me?"

“Couldn't, could he?” she says. “I’ve got no way of contacting him. For the best, anyway.” Mum stands and crosses to the sink. “Why d'you ask, lovey?”

“Well," his voice is just a little squeak, that way it gets when he's properly nervous, "I should like to meet him, someday."

“Don't be silly," Mum says. “He's got a family of his own by now, hasn't he?" With a flick of her wand the tap starts pouring and the dishes stack themselves. “Help me tidy up before Granddad gets back, there's a lad."

Peter doesn't bring it up again.

 

***

 

Over the remainder of the holidays Sirius comes back to the shop whenever he can. The shopkeeper woman’s name turns out to be Brianna, and she’s about as different from the people in his family as any grown-up can be. She wears blue jeans and swears and smokes cigarettes and always seems genuinely delighted to see him. 

Even if he didn’t like spending time with Brianna, Sirius would go just for the music. It’s like the best school lesson he’s ever had, the way she walks him through record by record, band by band (he’s learning the terms for it all now). He devours it. Muggles, it seems, take music much more seriously than any of the wizards he’s ever met do. Or at least the music they make is better, even with no magic at all to help them.

He wishes he could discuss this with Brianna, but of course he can’t. As it is he has to watch every word he says so as to not let anything magic-related slip, and she still thinks he’s a freak for all the things he doesn’t know. Sirius has never had a Muggle friend before; he smiles imagining the look on his mother’s face if she knew.

Brianna’s very popular and seems to know most of the people who come into the shop, many of whom stay and “hang out” with her for a while, swapping news and smoking cigarettes. They fawn over Sirius, teasing Brianna for her _protégé_ , and Sirius finds them all very interesting. By far the most noteworthy of these people, though, comes in one day around the New Year.

Sirius is sitting on the sunken couch with Brianna, helping her stick price labels to the backs of records while she “teaches”, when a man walks in with a large cardboard box. He’s around his late twenties like Brianna is, and has a scruffiness to him that Father would definitely disapprove of. The man takes one look at the two of them and snorts.

“You know that’s illegal?”

Brianna goes about her labelling and doesn’t look at him. “What’s illegal?”

“Enlisting child servants. Two words for you, mate: _Labour laws_.” The man sets down the box on the counter and gestures to Sirius. “Where’d you find him, anyway? Have you scooped up a street urchin?”

Brianna rolls her eyes. “Not a street urchin, and I didn’t ‘enlist’ nobody.” She reaches over to muss Sirius’ hair and says, “I’m teaching little Sirius here about rock and roll.” 

The man makes a dismissive sound. “What’s left to teach?” He gestures to the turntable, where Brianna’s put on Sirius’ favorite T Rex record. “That right there, that’s a dead corpse. The golden age is gone. Dig this, kid-- you're hearing the death rattle.”

“Oh shut it, crabby,” Brianna says, rolling her eyes. She makes a face at Sirius. “Don’t pay him no mind, he’s still sore he missed Isle of Wight.” She leans back and does a grand sweeping gesture between the two of them. “Sirius, meet Malcolm Hornby, music distributor and pain in my arse. Mal, meet Sirius, my delightful young protégé.”

“What’re _you_ doing with a protégé?” Malcolm says, making a face. “And if you didn’t get him off the street where’d you find a ten-year-old?”

Sirius crosses his arms. “I’m eleven. I’ll be twelve in June.”

“Do his parents know where he is?”

“Oh, they don’t mind,” Sirius cuts in. “Trust me, they like it better when I’m out of the house. Mum says she doesn’t like to look at me.”

Malcolm’s mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but instead he just looks at Brianna.  

She raises her eyebrows. “See? You wanna chuck him out?” As she returns to labelling she says to Sirius, “You’re gonna have to excuse Malcolm. Pain as he is, I’m terrible loyal to him— gets me the best deals in the city on record shipments, he does. Knows absolutely everything, dunno how he does it.”

Malcolm has his back to them and is going through the box he brought, taking out records. “I’m very persuasive,” he says vaguely.

“You two have gotta get along, much as you’re both round here,” Brianna continues. “Mal, you went to a fancy boarding school, yeah?”

He doesn’t look up from his work. “Yeah, why?”

“So does this one! See, not so different after all,” she says brightly. “Sirius’ has got a funny name. What was it called, lad? Your school?”

Sirius tells them. At the counter, Malcolm’s busy hands go still. He turns around slowly. 

“What’s your surname, boy?”

Sirius tells him. 

Malcolm pauses. 

"What?" asks Brianna.

In a very even sort of voice, he says, “I went to school there too.” 

Sirius gapes. Wait, _what?_

Malcolm is looking at him intently. "Do I know your family, Mr Black?” he asks.

He tries his best to look natural, like his heart isn’t racing in his chest. He says, “I think you would, yeah.”

Malcolm tilts his head and looks at him for a moment. 

Finally he says, ”You look like them." Then he crosses around to the other side of the counter and Sirius thinks he hears him mutter, "I'll be damned..."

Malcolm goes into the storage closet behind the counter and from inside he calls, “Fine, he can stay. But don’t let him in the back room, dig? Last thing we need round here is an eleven-year-old on grass.”

Sirius turns to Brianna, curious. “Grass?”

She bursts out laughing and won’t tell him why.

 

***

 

“Y’know,” Mum says to him on New Year’s Day, “you might consider telling your friends.”

Remus nearly spills the mug of tea she’s just handed him all over his bedclothes. “ _What?_ ”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but lying to them isn’t sustainable,” she says. She perches on the side of his bed and strokes his hair. “No offense, but that was a pretty awful story you cooked up.”

“Hey!” Remus protests. “Insult to injury, here.” 

Even sitting up enough to drink his tea hurts; the moon last night was awful. He got used to Madam Pomfrey’s healing spells at Hogwarts and being suddenly without them is especially terrible.

“Sit up,” Mum says. “Take these.” 

He swallows the pills she hands him. She takes the blue dittany bottle on the nightstand, pours some onto a clean rag, starts to go over the wounds on his chest and back for about the dozenth time today. “They’ve proven themselves, haven’t they? They sound like nice boys who really care about you. You should be honest with them.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

Remus doesn’t know where to begin with _why not_ , but he tries. “They’d be horrified.”

“Maybe for a bit they would be,” Mum says. She never lies to him. “But they’d get over it. You’re their friend, they’ve seen you’re no different from anybody else. I think it’s worth a try.”

“No. No a thousand times, _no_.”

“It wouldn’t be so terrible.”

“Yes, it would.”

“Must be awfully nice to know everything.”

“Can we not do this now?”

“Just think about it,” she says.

No, Remus won’t think about it. He knows what would happen. All three of his best friends grew up with magic, he knows what they’ve heard their whole lives.

Or, rather, he knows what Peter and James have heard their whole lives. But a family like the Blacks…God only knows what they have to say on the subject.

Remus can’t imagine what Sirius would do if he knew. Doesn’t want to. 

 

***

 

Peter hardly notices the months going by. He’s got a lot to occupy his mind: with friends like his, he’s never not busy with some adventure or another.

Some of their adventures involve exploring the castle. Ever since the events of their first morning at school James has been fascinated with finding out the secrets of the place, and the gift of his Invisibility Cloak at Christmas has made finding answers easier than ever. One night in February they solve one of the biggest mysteries that’s been gnawing at James: where their food comes from. Remus has the idea to look directly under the Great Hall in the dungeons and, sure enough, there’s a big kitchen down there. It’s the first time Peter’s ever seen a house elf and he meets about a hundred at once.

Other adventures are less like exploring and more like, say, stealing a firecrab from Professor Kettleburn’s office and putting it in the wardrobe in the staffroom. They get a lot of detention for that one.

With so much to distract him, Peter quickly loses interest in Remus’ secret. Every month Remus leaves for a few days, sometimes shorter stays and sometimes longer, and Peter stops trying to work out where he goes. It’s none of his business, anyway.

Then one Wednesday at the end of March, after they’ve climbed up to the tallest tower before midnight for their weekly Astronomy lesson, Remus isn’t there.

“He left after dinner,” Sirius tells them as they set up their telescopes. “Somebody ought to take notes for him.”

“Notes on what?” James squints up at the big black sky overhead, at the round white moon illuminating the top of the Astronomy Tower like a floodlight. “It’s too bright to see much. We shouldn’t have to come up here during the full moon, don’t you think?”

And suddenly Peter feels very stupid.

“Oh,” he says.

 

***

 

Their final Potions exam probably wasn’t the _best_ time for James to toss a leech into Snivellus’ cauldron, making the thing explode all over him, but it was completely worth the terrible mark.

He and Sirius are still laughing about it after they leave the dungeon.

“Did you hear him wailing, the great baby?”

“I think the boils were a nice change! Better than his normal ugly face, at least.”

“Not hard, that.”

“I hope Pomfrey never gets them off, think they look lovely—”

“Hang on,” Peter says. “The hospital wing…”

“What about it?”

A funny look comes over Peter’s face as he looks around the busy first floor corridor. He wrings his hands, a nervous habit of his, and leans in. “He won’t…” he says, eyes still darting, “He won’t see Remus, will he?”

James takes a moment to think of what he could possibly be on about but comes up with nothing. “Remus is at his mum’s, he left yesterday, remember?”

“What’s Remus got to do with anything?” Sirius says.

Peter stands stock still, hardly seeming to notice oncoming corridor traffic shoving past him. He stares at James and Sirius, that weird look on his face.

“What’s the matter with you? We’ve got Charms, c’mon.”

“I—I thought I was the last to figure it out?” Peter stammers, and it sound like a question. “I—I—I just, I just _assumed_ that you—”

James rolls his eyes and keeps walking. “Can you ramble nonsensically at us later?”

“You can’t not _know!_ ”

He turns around. Peter hasn’t moved. He looks…freaked out.

James sighs, gives Sirius’ sleeve a tug, and gestures them to an open door off the corridor. The classroom’s empty when they file in. James hops up onto a desk and hopes to make this quick, whatever it is.

“What’s this about?”

“You believe the thing about his sick mum?” Peter asks. “Both of you?”

James laughs and turns to Sirius for some backup, but there’s an unusually solemn look on his face.

“Not really,” Sirius says.

“His mum _is_ sick!” James feels angry now. “If he says so I believe him! I can’t believe you lot would call him a liar, that’s— that’s— that’s not on! What about loyalty, eh?”

“He hasn’t got a sick mum,” Peter says weakly. He looks at James as if he’s apologising for something and says, “He’s a werewolf, James.”

Nobody says anything. Then James laughs.

“You’re out of your tree.”

“I thought you both knew.” Peter’s wringing his hands again. “For months. I— I thought we just weren’t talking about it.”

“The full moon,” Sirius mutters. His eyes look at nothing. “He’s gone at the full moon.”

“And he never changes clothes in front of us because—”

“Because there’s a dirty great bite on him somewhere,” Sirius says. He paces. “I’m going to be sick.”

“You’re both mad!”

Peter turns to keep talking nonsense to James but then they’re distracted by the sound of the door slamming: Sirius has bolted.

They chase after him into the corridor just in time to see his robes whip around the corner.

“OY! BLACK!”

They’re finally gaining on Sirius when the double doors to the hospital wing come into view. James shouts at his back one more time but it’s no use; Sirius throws the doors open and they’ve got no choice but to run in after him.

The hospital wing is quiet and empty, no sign even of Snivellus. The only indication of life in the place is a bed at the far, far end of the room, around which somebody’s put white screens.

Maybe James realises by the time they tug the screen back that the other two were right, and that it _is_ going to be Remus lying there, bandaged within an inch of his life. It’s still a shock, though.

He’s awake, a textbook in his lap. He blinks up at them.

“I don’t suppose,” James says, “that you got into a freak accident while taking your mum to the doctor?”

Remus’ face is white, but his voice is remarkably composed. “No, can’t say I did.”

A cold jab of unease spikes through James’ chest. For just a second he’s aware of what he’s talking to, what’s he’s been sharing a dormitory with.

Then he feels deeply, painfully ashamed of himself.

This is _Remus_. This is his friend, how could he think something like that? And all that stuff he’s heard about what werewolves are like— obviously it’s all been lies, hasn’t it? None of it was true, and James ought to be fed to the Giant Squid for ever thinking it was.

He drops down onto the edge of the bed. “So you’re a werewolf, then?”

Remus sighs. “I knew you’d work it out.”

“Of course we did!” Technically Peter worked it out, but whatever, James would’ve gotten there eventually.

“You two are too clever for your own good.”

“This changes things.”

“I know.”

“We’ll have to think of something. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us,” James snaps. “How’re we supposed to help if we don’t know?”

“Help? Help what?”

“You, obviously?” He doesn’t know why Remus is being stupid. “Now that we know whyyou look so awful once a month we can do something about it.”

“Mate,” Sirius says. “You can’t… _fix_ being a werewolf.”

“I know that, I’m not stupid. I’m just saying, there must be something we can do to make the whole thing less horrible. It must be the worst thing ever, judging by the way he looks sometimes.”

“Wait, wait…” Remus’ calm is breaking; he’s sort of gaping. “You still want to be my friends?”

“Yeah, you silly git. Lads, back me up.”

“Yes,” Sirius says firmly. “Of course we do.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Peter says.

There’s another long silence. Remus doesn’t meet anybody’s eyes. Then:

“Alright,” he says.

 

***

 

That night it’s Sirius who parts the hangings of Remus’ bed. It’s usually the other way round, but tonight he suspects Remus isn’t sleeping.

He’s right. Wordlessly, Remus moves over and makes room. They lay down, facing each other.

All year neither of them have mentioned it to Peter or James, but they do this fairly often. Typically the way it goes is Remus will wake him up and tell him that he can’t sleep if Sirius keeps chattering all night, so they lie side by side and talk about boats until they both fall asleep.

Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes they talk about other stuff. Tonight seems to be the second one.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” asks Sirius.

“You know perfectly well why,” says Remus, in that grown-up way of his. “Peter mightn’t because he grew up around Muggles, and James pretends he doesn’t, but you know why.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.” It took Sirius weeks to notice the thin white scar that slices neatly through Remus’ left eyebrow, but it’s apparent up this close. He never thought about what put it there before. “I don’t care, though.”

“I was so sure you would,” Remus whispers. “You especially. With what your family must’ve told you…”

“You think I listen to anything they say?” Sirius says. There’s an ache in his chest that comes out on words: “It doesn’t matter. You’re you. There’s nothing bad about you.”

He sees Remus bite his lip. “Thanks.”

“I wish you’d have told us sooner. We could’ve at least visited you after, in the hospital wing.”

Remus sighs. He sighs much more than any eleven-year-old should sigh. “It’s…not pretty. I don’t think you lot would like it.”

“We aren’t little girls. I think we can handle it.”

Giving him an odd, hard look, Remus sits up. His hands go to his shirt, where he undoes a couple of buttons and pulls it aside. There across his shoulder from the base of his neck to his arm is the biggest, nastiest scar Sirius has ever seen. Though the furrowed puncture marks themselves are silvery with age, the surrounding skin looks inflamed and angry. Something very large has sunk its teeth into him.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Remus explains, “but it’ll look like that forever.”

He does up his shirt and lies down again. He looks at Sirius. “It’s not nice. None of it is.”

Sirius is so distracted staring at the place where the scar was that for a moment he forgets to answer. “How old were you?” he asks.

“Five.”

“ _Five?_ ”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what happened? Like, do you…know who it was?”

“No. I doubt I ever will.” Remus shrugs a little. “I don’t blame him, though, whoever he was.”

“How can you not blame him?”

“He didn’t know what he was doing. I understand what it’s like. It wasn’t his fault.”

“Oh.”

As they drift off to sleep, Sirius thinks that there is a lot to Remus that he will never understand.

 

***

 

 


	3. transformer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I got snitched on by a bunny rabbit. Nothing can surprise me anymore."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this once for about thirty seconds and then immediately deleted it because I'd screwed up the formatting. I'm so good at ao3, guys. Thanks for reading!

  

***

 

For as long as he’s known him, Remus has understood that Sirius doesn’t like being home. It becomes especially apparent over the summer. Their group of four has taken to writing letters by sending one long piece of parchment around for each of them to add to. They’ve got a system worked out— James, in Cornwall, gets it started, then it goes to Sirius and then to Remus, both in London, before heading up to Peter in Lancashire. Sirius’ branch, despite being the closest in proximity to the one after, always takes the longest to arrive. It seems he’s never home to get letters.

What Sirius’ parents think of their twelve-year-old roaming around London all day Remus doesn’t know, but that’s apparently what he does. His two main haunts are a record shop fairly close to his house in Islington and the Lupins’ flat, which isn’t close at all. Remus wonders how he gets there; he never asks.

There are a couple of weeks in July when Sirius goes to visit James for the first time. When he gets back he sits with Remus at the table in the flat’s tiny kitchen and tells him all about it, about their adventures in the Potters’ sprawling country estate and in the neighbouring Muggle village. Sirius also talks a lot about how fantastic Mr and Mrs Potter are, how they’re just what anybody could ever want in a mum and dad. Judging from his stories they adore him as well, and have taken his status as their son’s new brother in stride.

Remus smiles as he listens. Sirius deserves to have adults in his life who love him, even if they can’t be his own parents.

Apropos of nothing much, Sirius says, “He’s convinced he’s gonna think of something to help.”

“Help what?”

“You know what.”

Remus sighs. “He’s not still on that, is it?”

“More than ever.” Sirius leans back in his chair, tilting it on two legs as is his habit. “Wouldn’t stop talking about it. ‘Black’,” and he goes into a dopey voice that’s supposed to approximate James, “‘there are two things I’m gonna do this year: get on the Quidditch team, and help Remus.’ Always on about it. I expect you’ll hear all about it as soon as we get back.”

Remus looks at the floor, studies the yellow and tan tile. “What, exactly, does he think he’s going to do?”

“I dunno. Neither does he. He’s convinced inspiration’s gonna strike.”

“And you told him that he’s kidding himself, right?”

“You ever tried telling James Potter he’s wrong?”

 

***

 

It’s all Lily Evans’ fault.

James was having a great day before she got involved. It was Quidditch trials this morning, and weather conditions were perfect: a clear, crisp September day with the lightest breeze. James scored fourteen goals and outflew all the competition, most of whom were years older than him. He was feeling great when he headed up into the stands to join the onlookers, accepting praise and high-fives with his usual humility.

“Did you _see_ me out there?” he said as he dropped down next to Remus, shoving aside somebody or another. “I’m a bloody shoo-in! Unfair to all these other wannabes, really.”

“Very impressive.”

“Point one on my to-do list was _easy_. It’s on to the second, now.”

“Don’t tell me—”

“You watch,” James said. “I’m gonna think of something for your, er. This furry little problem of yours.”

And of course it just bloody figures that the person on his other side happened to be—

“‘Furry little problem’?” said Lily Evans. She gave James her usual disapproving look. “What’re you lot up to now?”

“Nothing!” James said quickly. “It’s— er—”

He turned to Remus, who was busy pretending James didn’t exist. Traitor.

“Well, if you must know,” James said, “it’s Remus’ rabbit.”

She raised her eyebrows. “His…rabbit?”

Out of the corner of his eye James saw Remus shooting him a look that communicated _shut up you idiot_. He raked a hand through his hair and kept talking. “Yeah. He nicked him from Professor McGonagall’s office to save him being transfigured into a music box.”

“Huh.” Lily leaned forward to address Remus. “That was very brave of you.”

“I mean, I helped,” James said. His hand went to his hair without his telling it to. “I helped quite a bit, ran the operation— whole thing was my idea, actually—”

Remus cleared his throat.

“Er, anyway,” James said. “He’s causing us problems because, y’know, we aren’t allowed rabbits at school so we have to keep him hidden in our room and all…”

Lily’s smile was directed at Remus and not James. “What’s his name?” she asked.

“Er,” Remus said. “Prometheus. He’s very cute.”

And then she messed everything up.

“You didn’t have to say yes,” Peter says.

It’s afternoon now. James fast-walks down the corridor instead of taking it at a run, in order to avoid suspicion. Suspicion will be easy enough to come by as it is, since he’s clutching a squirming rabbit in his arms.

“She said she wanted to see the rabbit! What was I supposed to say?”

“‘No’,” Remus says. “‘No’ is what you were supposed to say.”

“I can’t believe we stole from a teacher’s office,” Peter says, the unbearable whinger.

“Your commitment to impressing Lily Evans is going to get us expelled one day,” says Remus, who, incidentally, James hates.

“I wasn’t trying to _impress_ anybody!” The rabbit makes another desperate bid for freedom; James catches him just in time. “Especially not _her,_ she’s a nosy goody-two-shoes who hates me and I hate her back, so there.”

“Right,” Remus says.

“Anyway,” James goes on, “we’ll get the stupid rabbit back to the stupid common room and show it to stupid Lily Evans, and if Sirius is back by then he can help us put it back— we’ll get into McGonagall’s office again and she’ll never—”

A door opens right ahead of them. This happens to be the exact moment that the rabbit finally breaks free, bounds out of James’ arms, and lands neatly at the feet of Professor McGonagall.

Remarkable timing she’s got, that woman.

“Explain,” she says.

“This is lucky, Professor!” James says. “We found this little guy hopping around the first floor, we figured he’d escaped from your office.”

Her mouth thins in a dangerous sort of way. “Potter, I—”

“He’s telling the truth, Professor,” Remus pipes up, and James doesn’t hate him anymore. “We saw that your office door was hanging open, we thought maybe Peeves had let him out…”

She might actually believe that, judging from the look on her face as she peers down at the rabbit, now nibbling curiously on the hem of her robes.

Then she turns into a cat.

James blinks. “Er,” he says. “So…can we go, then?”

The tabby slinks up to the rabbit, who sniffs it curiously. The two animals stare at each other, ears twitching. James thinks he hears one or the other make a low noise.

Then the cat’s gone, replaced by Professor McGonagall, who straightens her spectacles and fixes James with one of her _looks_. He’s used to them by now. They’re still terrifying.

“Detention, Potter.”

“But—”

“You two as well,” she goes on. “Aiding and abetting.”

They tell Sirius about it at dinner.

“She was _talking_ to it,” James says, still amazed. He puts food on his plate at random. “She asked it what happened! I didn’t know Animaguses—”

“Animagi,” says Remus.

“Them too. I didn’t know they could do that— just talk to any animal they feel like!”

“What about, y’know, a goldfish or something?” Peter asks. “Can you have a conversation with something that’s got such a small brain?”

“I converse with James all the time,” Sirius says with his mouth full.

James throws a roll at his head and moves on. “I got snitched on by a bunny rabbit. Nothing can surprise me anymore.”

“Dunno why you couldn’t just tell Evans ‘no’.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You lot are the worst.” James picks up his fork with an air of finality. “This is all Evans’ fault, end of story. Pass the carrots.”

 

***

 

The other three have got some nerve to get detention without him.

There was an incident with a rabbit on Saturday, but Sirius was unable to join them. He was in the hospital wing at the time, waiting out the side-effects of a new hex he and James have been working on— now that they’re in second year, they’d decided, it was high time they started inventing their own. Being stuck in bed and hexed didn’t bother him at the time; his skin had taken on the consistency of sandpaper, yes, and he could only speak in strange gargling sounds, but that was the price of genius.

Now, though, he feels left out. There’s nothing more boring than not having detention when all of your friends do.

He’s been in the dormitory all afternoon when he hears a voice at the door.

“Whatever have you done to it?”

Sirius looks up from the faintly smoking turntable on the floor in front of him. Lily Evans is standing there, looking disapproving. “Mind your own business,” he tells her.

“I could smell it from the common room.”

The dormitory does smell quite strongly of something burning, it must be admitted. Tesla came out from under Peter’s bed ten minutes ago and has been meowing judgmentally at him.

“I was trying to make it louder.”

“Muggle things don’t work here.”

“I know that. Alice Higgs bewitched it last year for Muggle Studies. Peter went mad for it so she let him keep it.”

“And it works?”

“Supposed to.” He rearranges himself on the floor and pokes at it again with his wand. “I was just trying to make it louder and it stopped.”

“I think you’ve broken it.”

“Have not,” Sirius says. He probably has, though, which is awful. He liked having one, since he finally had someplace to play the records he gets from Brianna. He’s upset and embarrassed and wishes Lily’d go away. He doesn’t know why she’s here at all— she’s always hated James. Anybody who hates James is obligated to hate Sirius by extension. 

She steps into the room, shoos Tesla, and sits down across from him. “Let me try.”

He tugs it away from her. “You’ll only make it worse.”

“No I won’t.” She tosses her hair. “Watch.” She taps the turntable with her wand and says, “ _Finite incantatem_.”

Immediately the smoke clears and, with a quiet _click_ , the record starts to turn, music playing softly.

Sirius mumbles, “Still wish it were louder, though.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. She doesn’t leave. What’s she still doing here? “Where’re your friends?”

“Detention.”

“Why?”

“Long story.”

She glances around at the room. “I knew there wasn’t a rabbit.”

“What?”

“Nothing. What record’s this?”

Sirius picks up the empty record sleeve and hands it to her. She squints at the still photograph on the front. “It’s a Muggle one?”

“Wizarding stuff isn’t any good. Besides, I don’t imagine any of that would work on this machine.”

“It’s surprising, is all. Coming from you.”

He flinches. “Why?”

“You liking Muggle things. You know why that’s surprising. Everybody knows what your family’s like.”

“I’m not like them,” Sirius snaps. “It doesn’t matter if I look like them or whatever.” He crosses his arms tightly and feels a big patchwork of bruises. He can’t even remember how he got those. “I’m nothing like them, not at all.”

“I know. You wouldn’t be talking to me if you were.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I’m Muggle-born.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do.”

“Well, I don’t care, do I?”

“Good.”

There’s a moment where it’s quiet but for the music playing softly from the turntable. Then Sirius says, “You must know everything about Muggle stuff.”

“I suppose,” she says, still examining the record sleeve. “I’ve never seen this man before, though. Is he wearing makeup?”

He peers over at the upside-down sleeve. “I guess he is. Do Muggle men do that often?”

“Never that I’ve seen.” She looks at it some more. “It looks cool, though.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. I think it looks nice.”

He finds he agrees. It does look pretty cool. “Me too. I don’t know how you do it, though, putting stuff on your eyes like that. Don’t you poke them?”

“No,” Lily says, giggling. “You don’t touch the actual eyeball.”

“What do you do, then?”

“You only…” She thinks, then stands up. “Hang on a minute.”

She runs out. Sirius sits on the floor, confused, for only a couple of minutes before she comes back with a box in her hands. It looks like a tiny pink suitcase. She sits down in front of him again and flips open the clasp.

“Here.” She takes out something like a thin crayon and leans toward him. “Now hold still, I can’t show you if you move.”

“Alright.” He flinches.

“Hey! No moving!”

“It feels funny.”

She snorts, says, “You’re a baby,” takes his face in her other hand to keep it still, and continues. “This is the magic stuff, it’s loads better. Mum said I couldn’t have any until I was thirteen but my sister and I snuck off in Diagon Alley and got some. It doesn’t smear at all or anything.”

Trying not to move his face too much, he asks, “Why have you got to be thirteen?”

“She thinks I’m too young to wear makeup.” Lily pauses to blow a lock of red hair out of her eyes. “But it’s fun and I like it.”

Sirius looks at the box, full of colorful, oddly-shaped things. “How’d you come by that stuff, then?”

“Got Tuney to get it, of course. My older sister— I’d give her my pocket money and have her buy it, Mum and Dad were none the wiser.”

Sirius hums, impressed. “I can’t imagine you breaking rules.”

“Of course I break rules. When the rules are stupid. There you are.” She turns him around. “Go have a look.”

He stands and goes to the mirror. “Oh.” There’s colour around his eyes, a dark, purplish-red. His eyes look much lighter than they usually do. “Wicked,” he decides.

“Isn’t it?”

He tilts his face this way and that, watching himself. “I look like a rockstar.”

“You do!” She claps her hands together excitedly. “Speaking of which, you know you can make it louder by turning up the dial, right? You haven’t got to use magic and break the thing.”

“Oh. Right.” He goes over and turns the dial. Just as she said, the music gets louder. “I feel stupid.”

“That’s alright. I’m Muggle-born. I know things.”

He hums, then walks back to look at his face in the mirror some more. “You’re really good at this makeup stuff too. What else can you do?”

She claps her hands again. “Oh, so much. Hang on.” She tugs him back over to their bit of floor and flips open the box.

 

Later that evening, the four of them play cards in the common room. Sirius doesn’t feel so bad about being left out anymore; listening to the three of them talk about cleaning a section of Greenhouse Three (“I don’t know what grabbed me but I swear it _hissed_ —”) has given him some perspective.

“Glad to hear you missed us,” James says.

“Oh, horribly. And so jealous too.”

“Whatever. Your go, Remus.”

Remus throws out a card with such speed it can only mean it’s about to explode; all four fling themselves back in their chairs and watch tensely. Nothing happens.

“Huh,” Remus says. “I thought that was a sure one. So, what did you do all evening?”

“Not much. Hung out with Lily some.”

With a loud _bang_ and the smell of gunpowder, Remus’ card explodes. Tesla hisses, a nearby first year screams. James doesn’t appear to notice.

“Evans? You were with _Evans?_ ”

“Yeah, why?” says Sirius. He washed his face before the other three got back, but he doesn’t see why he should be secretive about Lily Evans not hating him suddenly. “It’s your go.”

James doesn’t move. “What were you doing?”

“I dunno, just hanging out. Are you going to play that card or not, it seems very angry with you.”

James tosses down the steaming card but his focus doesn’t waiver. “She hates us.”

“Guess it’s just you. Or maybe she took pity on me. Your go, Pete.”

“Hang on, what’s the score?” Peter asks.

“What, so you’re pals with her now?”

“I dunno, maybe? What’s it matter?”

“Do you fancy her?”

It’s such a barmy thing for James to say that it takes Sirius a second to respond. “No, I don’t fancy her, who said anything about that?”

“You hung out with her all afternoon—”

“Wasn’t _all_ afternoon, and I don’t see why that—”

“You waited till we weren’t around to talk to her, so you’d be alone.”

“ _What?_ ” Sirius’ voice cracks up a note or twelve; it’s been doing that lately. “What’s the matter with you? You’re being weird.”

“I’m not!” James yelps. It’s hard to tell with his complexion but he looks rather redder than usual when he says, more quietly, “I just wish you’d admit that you fancy her, is all.”

“I dunno where this is coming from,” Sirius says. He’s irritated now. “We sat around in the dormitory talking for a while, that means I fancy her? By that logic I’m madly in love with all three of you.”

“It’s different when it’s a girl.”

“What, I’ve got to like her just ’cause she’s a girl? There’s plenty of girls I don’t like.”

“Which one do you like, then?”

“Huh?”

“‘There’s plenty of girls I don’t like’, you said,” says James. There’s a challenging look on his face. “So which one _do_ you like, then?”

And suddenly Sirius is very angry. “I don’t like any, alright? I don’t have to fancy anybody, and if I did I wouldn’t have to tell you!”

He doesn’t notice that he’s gotten to his feet until he feels a pull on his sleeve. He lets Remus tug him back down to the sofa.

Remus is looking at him. He’s making that concerned face of his, the one that makes him look too old for twelve, and the thought pops up out of nowhere into Sirius’ brain _Oh, his eyes are tea-coloured, that’s what they remind you of_ , immediately followed by _What?_

He wishes he knew what he was so angry about.

“I’m fine, just…” It occurs to him how loud he’s been and how there are other people in the common room. “Everybody’s just got to mind their own business, is all.”

“Alright, fine,” James says. “What’s the score?”

“You’re beating us,” Remus answers cheerfully.

Sirius swings his legs over Remus’ lap and tosses down a card.

 

***

 

That night, since neither of them are sleeping, Remus crawls onto Sirius’ bed and lies down next to him. Everything’s dark and still, quiet except for James’ soft snores. There’s light coming in the window from the moon, one day shy of full, and Sirius can see how tired and ill Remus looks.

“You’re looking awfully...moon-y.”

“Yeah. I feel terrible.”

Sirius hums. “Why don’t you say that ever?”

“What?”

“I mean,” Sirius says, “usually when one of us says you aren’t looking well, you make it like it’s nothing. You say something, y’know, grown-up and Remus-y and change the subject.”

“Guess I don’t feel like it.”

Sirius looks at him. “I’m sorry it’s so horrible.”

“It’s alright.”

“Not really.”

“Well, no,” Remus concedes. “But there’s nothing you can do.”

“James won’t hear that.”

He laughs quietly, just an exhale from his nose. “He’ll accept it eventually. There’s nothing to be done.”

Sirius feels sad. “You talk like you’re forty sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. You just do.”

“Alright.”

They lay there for a while, neither feeling the need to talk. Sirius thinks Remus might’ve fallen asleep, but then he says, “James has always been funny about Lily, but, y’know, it’d be okay if you did fancy her.”

It’s dark, but Sirius rolls his eyes anyway. “ _Merlin_ , Remus, not you too.”

“I’m only saying— James was a bit of a prat about it, but that doesn’t mean you can’t—”

“I’m not interested in Lily Evans! Geez, have I been speaking Mermish?”

“Alright, alright, just checking.”

“James is a jealous git. I’m allowed to have friends that are girls. You’re friends with Jeanette.”

“Yeah. She’s nice.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure James believes you. He’s just…touchy, when it comes to her.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Sirius falls asleep feeling funny for no good reason he can come up with, and he wakes up that way too. It’s never nice fighting with James, it always makes him feel off-balance and strange. This time is especially odd, though. Something about this Lily situation has really gotten under his skin. It makes him uneasy.

It doesn’t improve his mood that the next morning he gets cornered by Lily Evans herself. He leaves the common room and she’s there, waiting on the other side of the portrait hole like she’s expecting him.

“Are you psychic?” says Sirius.

“I think James Potter’s awful and I hate that you two are so cruel to Severus,” she says. “But I think we could be friends.”

Sirius isn’t sure what to say to that. “All my friends think I fancy you,” he tells her.

She doesn’t look offended, but she does seem a bit puzzled. “Do you?”

“Not even a little.”

She nods, thoughtful. “I didn’t think so.”

“But I do like being your friend,” he says honestly.

“I’m glad.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls something out. “I wanted to give you this.”

It’s the reddish-purple eye pencil. “The colour’s much nicer on you than it is on me. Besides, you need it more than I do.” She hands it to him.

Sirius takes it and puts it in his pocket. “Thanks.”

Lily doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at him, curious. Then she says, “Are they as awful as they say, your family?”

“Yeah.”

She nods to herself. “You need it more than me.”

Sirius will come to think about that conversation a lot. Years and years from now, he’ll think about it.

 

***

 

James hasn't been _obsessing_ , or anything like that. Not like he would waste thought on snobby little busybodies like Evans when he’s had so much other stuff to think about. He's on the Quidditch team now, and being Hogwarts' greatest Chaser ever takes a lot of focus.

There was also the second annual Hallowe'en prank, which was, in his humble opinion, a work of genius. It was criminally easy to steal clothes from every Slytherin in the school out of the laundry, and from there it was just a matter of decorating every statue and suit of armour they could find. It took forever to sort out whose stuff was whose; Boris the Bewildered on the fifth floor had somebody’s boxers on his head well into November.

So, James has been busy. Too busy to pay attention to Lily Busybody Evans.

But he’s still going to _notice_ , isn’t he? The way Evans is all buddy-buddy with Sirius all of a sudden. It makes no sense at all— one second she's giving both of them death glares for putting a measly hex or two on Snivellus, and the next she's chatting with Sirius in Charms class! It's against the natural order of things.

He knows that Sirius doesn't like her like that; Sirius told him he didn’t, so James believes him. But Evans, what's her angle here? Not that James would ever care which boys she fancied. She's annoying and nosy and horrible and he would never care about it at all. Because she's awful.

"So, I've had this idea," James says one day.

"Oh dear," Remus says.

“It’s about Evans,” James says.

“Oh _dear_ ,” Remus says, with feeling.

"I bet she fancies Sirius,” James says. It’s a normal Wednesday afternoon in late November and James has finally managed to catch Remus alone, sitting by the window in the common room. The fact that it is a normal Wednesday afternoon means that Sirius and Peter will be underfoot any moment, so James acts fast. He’s got a plan to put in action.

"Why do you care?"

"I don't!" James says. “She's the worst. Of course I don’t care.”

"Right." Remus goes back to his copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2_ , as if that were so bloody interesting.

"But, but, y'know, if she does, we should know about it. Sirius has got a right to know."

"If you say so."

"I've got a plan."

Remus keeps his eyes on his book. "I was afraid of that."

“We should find out. Y’know who would know? Her best friend."

"Snape?"

“ _Eugh,_ no.” James still doesn't know how the slimeball makes Evans hang round him. Black magic, probably. "Her other best friend. Jeanette."

"What about her?"

"Well, _you’re_ friends with Jeanette."

Remus looks up at that. He looks a bit terrified. “No."

“Please?"

“No. Absolutely not.”

He caves eventually. It’s a handy thing about Remus.

 

***

 

“Potter isn’t around?”

“Nah, he and Remus are up to something,” Sirius says, dropping down beside the turntable and diving for his bag. “And Peter’s in Remedial Transfiguration again, we’re safe.”

Lily joins him, cross-legged on the dormitory floor. “He can’t be with Remus, though. Remus and Jeanette went to the library.”

Sirius is only half-listening. He keeps pawing eagerly through his bag. Where’d he put it? “What for?”

“He asked her to go with him to work on the History of Magic essay.”

He tosses his bag aside and looks under his bed instead. “Boring.”

“Oh, well,” and he can practically hear her raise her eyebrows the way she does when she’s got a new piece of gossip, “I know Jenny isn’t thinking too much about warlock conventions.”

His hand closes over a thin cardboard sleeve and he emerges, bubbling over with excitement, and still isn’t really listening when he says, “What d’you mean?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? She fancies him!”

Sirius fumbles the record and drops it. “She does?”

Lily giggles. “You _can_ be dense.”

There’s a mischievous glint in her eye. Sirius can’t think of what to say.

“Well?” she says. “Are you going to play it?”

“Oh— oh, right.” He picks it up again, sliding the single from its sleeve and arranging it on the player. “Malcolm sent it to me this morning—”

“He’s the one who’s a wizard, right?”

“Yeah and he must be using it somehow, because he said this wasn’t supposed to come out for a few days.” Sirius sets the needle down; a guitar intro buzzes warmly to life, joined by a bluesy bass beat.

Lily picks up the empty sleeve and studies the cover. “What sort of magic gets you singles early? Has he got the Imperius Curse on David Bowie?”

“I dunno, maybe.”

They settle in to listen. “I never thought there were wizards living non-magic lives like that,” Lily says. “Makes me feel a bit less funny for going and being a Muggle three months out of the year.”

“Mm,” Sirius says. The music chugs on, _sits like a man but he smiles like a reptile,_ and Lily bobs a foot along to the rhythm. Sirius, who has been looking forward to hearing it all day, finds himself suddenly distracted. “D’you think Remus likes Jeanette back?”

“You’re his friend, not me. Seems like it, though.”

“Oh.”

They sit. The song slides into a second chorus.

“How…how d’you mean, ‘seems like it’?”

“He asked her to the library just now.”

“So? Maybe he really did just want to work on the essay.”

“Sure, maybe.”

“I mean. That doesn’t mean he fancies her.”

“Sure.”

 _Loves to be loved, loves to be loved_ , sings David Bowie in a way Sirius’ mum would call _lascivious_ if she listened to such things and Sirius feels…uncomfortable, about something. He swallows, looks at the floor. “I bet he doesn’t. He would’ve told us.”

“You could just ask him if you care so much.”

“I don’t care. Why would I care?”

“I dunno.”

The song goes through two more choruses and ends, and Sirius flips the record over. The B side is one of his favourites— he drove Brianna crazy playing that album about a billion times over the summer— but he’s still distracted.

“Why don’t I fancy you?” he blurts.

She’s leaned against a footboard, paying him little attention. “Huh?”

“It seems like every time a bloke hangs out with a girl alone they fancy each other, but I don’t like you like that at all.”

“I don’t think that’s always what it means when a girl and a boy hang out.”

“Everybody thinks it.”

“Well, they’re wrong, then.”

“I keep getting the feeling there’s something wrong with me,” Sirius says, and he doesn’t realize that’s what he’s feeling until it comes out of his mouth.

“Like what?”

“I dunno.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Lily says. “Now hush, this is a good one.”

 

***

 

James doesn't _say_ that he's going to be listening from the other side of a bookcase, but he doesn't _not_ say it either.

For about a thousand years Remus and Jeanette talk about the History of Magic essay, like the boring nerds they are. Jeanette's acting very funny. She's uncharacteristically giggly, and keeps batting her hair around. James stops paying attention for a bit, until:

"How's your rabbit?"

"What?"

"Your rabbit," Jeanette says. "Lily told me about him, how you rescued him. That was really brave of you."

"Oh," Remus says. "Right, yes. My rabbit, Pentheus."

"Lily said his name was Prometheus?"

“Of course, that's what I said. Er. He's doing very well, thank you."

She does the thing with her hair again. "I would love to meet him sometime, y'know, if you ever wanted to—”

"No, sorry, I'm afraid you can't," Remus cuts in quickly. "He's, er, he's a very nasty rabbit. A right little beast. Nearly took Sirius' nose off once."

"Oh! That's...too bad."

"Yes, he's an awful, awful rabbit."

"Lily didn't mention that."

"Well, er.” _Change the bloody subject, Lupin_ , James thinks at him as hard as he can. "We try to keep him hush-hush. Speaking of Lily," Remus says, his voice going a bit pitchy, "James reckons she fancies Sirius."

James holds his breath. Not like he cares, because he doesn't, but--

Jeanette laughs. "No, don't be ridiculous. About a dozen girls fancy Sirius but Lily isn't one of them. "

“I didn't think so, but you know James--"

“Not _all_ the girls like Sirius," Jeanette says. She flips her hair back again. Maybe she needs a haircut, James thinks. "Some of them fancy other people. _I_ don't fancy Sirius, for instance."

"Oh, well, that's nice,” Remus says. "Say, you don't think Lily told too many people about Prometheus?"

Jeanette shrugs. "She told our whole dormitory. I don’t know who else she told.”

James groans internally. Great, now they’re going to have to keep the whole school thinking they’ve got a demon rabbit in their room for the next six years. Who knows how many more bunnies they're going to have to steal?

It's been well over a month since the incident, but James still reckons it's unfair that McGonagall can talk to any animal she wants, any animal at all, just because she's an--

"Merlins satiny underthings," James says out loud. He thinks he hears some surprise from Remus and Jeanette but he's stopped listening, he runs across the library to the other side.

He's got some research to do.

***

There's no sign of James the whole rest of the evening, which Remus thinks is irritating considering the ill-advised spy mission he sent Remus on earlier. He's missing all throughout dinner.

On the walk back from the Great Hall, Sirius asks, “You get your essay done?”

“Essay?”

“The History of Magic one. Lily said you and Jeanette were working on it.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. He could tell Sirius that the whole thing was a ruse with the distinctive Potter stamp of stupidity on it, but he doesn’t have the energy. “Yeah, we got a lot done. She’s very clever.”

“Mm,” Sirius says.

“I still haven’t started mine,” Peter says. “What was it on again?”

“Yeah,” Sirius says.

And from around a corner James comes hurtling out of nowhere, shouting. Of course he does.

“EMERGENCY FRIEND MEETING!”

“What’s happening?” says Peter.

“I’ve just come from the library,” James pants. “Oy, what floor is this?”

“Third,” Sirius says. “Potter, what—”

“Trophy room!” James shouts, then he’s wheeling around and sprinting away down the corridor. “STAT!”

The three of them look at each other. Sirius shrugs. They go to the trophy room.

James is already there when they come in. He stands among the glass cases looking ready to burst, and when he does it’s on one word: “Animagi.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Bless you?”

“What about them?” asks Remus.

“I’ve gone to the library, right—”

“You can read?”

James doesn’t even stop to cuff Sirius around the neck, which is how Remus knows it’s important business. “I’ve gone and read about them, and— McGonagall gave me the idea with the whole rabbit thing, how she could go and talk to other animals— and they can, I read about it, they can, y’know, befriend any sort of animal they want, some rather cute stories about it actually—”

“I do hope,” says Remus, “that you’re getting to a point.”

“My _point_ ,” James says with great ceremony, “is that this, my friends, is the answer!”

If he was aiming for drama, it doesn’t work. Remus looks at the others. They don’t seem to know what he’s talking about either.

James groans. “The answer to our problem! If—”

“We have a problem?” Peter asks.

“If animaguses can—”

“Animagi.”

“Whatever. If Animagi—”

“Hang on,” says Peter, “what’s our problem? What’s he mean, ‘our—’”

Sirius gasps. Everyone stops talking over each other and looks at him. His mouth has fallen open, and his eyes are wide as he stares at James.

“ _Oh_.”

James takes him by the shoulders. “Right?! Aren’t I a genius?”

Sirius still looks shocked, but now he’s grinning wide enough to split his face in two. “You have your moments.”

“Because, if we—”

“I know!” Sirius grabs James by the elbows and the two sort of hop up and down in place.

Remus has no earthly idea what’s going on. “Would the telepathy twins care to tell us what they’re on about?”

James turns. “Animagi can talk to other animals, hang out with them.” He looks at Remus. “Including werewolves.”

It takes a second to sink in.

“You’re joking,” he says. “I know you’re joking. You didn’t just _actually suggest_ that we…”

“Nah, not we,” says James. “Just us, you wouldn’t be involved.”

“Of course I’d be _involved_!” Remus shouts. “You’d get killed and I’d be very much involved in that process!”

“No we wouldn’t!” James shouts back. He runs over to his bag, discarded against a display of shields, and starts rummaging through it. “I got some books on werewolves too, see—”

He pulls out a faded leather volume and flips it open to a dog eared page. He reads:

“ _Though the saliva of the werewolf will curse and infect a human body upon entering the bloodstream, it has no such effect on the anatomy of other, non-human animals_ — and there’s a footnote, hang on— _including, but not limited to: non-magical animals, wild or domestic; magical creatures of the Beast classification of sub-human intelligence/sentience such as dragons, unicorns, hippogriffs etc.; magical creatures of the Beast classification of near/human/super-human intelligence such as centaurs, goblins, house-elves, acr—_ okay, yes, yes…blah blah— ah, here— _humans temporarily transfigured to non-human animal shape (i.e. Animagi)_.”

James slams the book shut, looking terribly pleased with himself.

Remus crosses his arms. “You think you’re a genius.”

“I do, yes, because I _am_.”

Peter looks quite lost. “Could…would someone tell me—”

“James,” Remus explains, “is a stubborn prat who can’t learn to accept defeat.”

The stubborn prat in question starts pacing around, flailing his arms. Remus rather hates him right now. “It would work!”

“It wouldn’t work! Alright, fine, even if I didn’t infect you what makes you think your just being there would make it any better for me?”

“We could talk to you! Calm you down.”

“‘Calm me down’?!” Remus feels himself grabbing fistfuls of his own hair and tugging at it; he feels panicked and terrified and altogether insane. “That’s not how werewolves work! You can’t fix them with— with the _power of friendship!_ ”

“But you can!” James points to the book, and he has that stupid grin on, the one he gets when he has a new brilliant scheme that will land them all in detention. It’s making Remus feel sick to his stomach, that it’s all the same to him: pranking the Slytherins, fixing their poor, pathetic werewolf friend. “There are stories in here about how used to werewolves would gather in groups, because when they weren’t alone they were less likely to hurt themselves, just because the pack, like, soothed them, or whatever—”

“You’re not my _pack_ , you’re idiots.”

“I don’t see why they’ve got to be mutually exclusive,” Sirius chimes in.

Suddenly exhausted, Remus turns and sits against the closest display case. He’s so very tired. He doesn’t know why, exactly. Maybe it’s that he’s still recovering from what turned out to be a pretty terrible moon, and his whole body hurts from being yanked apart and rearranged and knit together again, torn up by his own hands and teeth.

Or maybe it’s because he’s read about that before, that thing James talked about— the way werewolves used to live together in bands before governments started regulating them more closely, because though numbers made them inflict less injury on themselves, the damage on nearby humans was astronomical. Remus has never liked thinking about that, because it always brings up unpleasant, uncomfortable thoughts in himself. Like, maybe, if he could just hurt a little less, the sacrifice might be worth it. What’s the risk of an anonymous human life or two, if he could make the pain go away?

Maybe he’s so tired because he knows, in theory, James’ plan would work.

He takes a deep breath. “You couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?” asks Sirius. “McGonagall did it.”

“That’s because McGonagall’s a really powerful witch, and a genius. And an adult. We, on the other hand, are twelve.”

“Thirteen,” corrects Peter, a tad boastfully.

“Pete…” Remus shakes his head. Peter wasn’t raised around as much magic as Sirius and James were; he can be forgiven for not understanding what’s at stake. “This is beyond N.E.W.T. level, way beyond. That’s why they keep track of people who try it. They put you in jail if you try to do it without telling the government.”

“Why?”

“Because if you mess it up, you can die. That’s how hard it is.”

Peter swallows. “Oh.” A long moment of tense silence passes. Looking that classically Peter combination of terrified and determined, he squares his shoulders. “I don’t care,” he says to James and Sirius. “I’ll do it.”

Beaming, James claps him on the back. “Good man.” He looks down at Remus. “Come on, mate. Can’t we at least try? We’re your best friends, you’ve got to let us _try_ to help you. You can’t make us sit here and do nothing month after month, it’s unfair.”

A laugh falls out of Remus’ mouth. “Unfair…” He lets his head tip back against the glass, looks at the ceiling. He’s tired, he’s so, so tired.

“It’s unfair,” Remus says, “that I nearly die every month.”  

He speaks to the ceiling, quietly, slowly.

“It’s unfair that my mother has to watch it. She’s a Muggle, there’s nothing she can do. There’s this cellar under our building we use, she locks me in, she waits up all night for me, then in the morning she goes down and gets me. One of these days, she might go down there and see that I’ve bled out onto the floor. Any month now, that could happen. Every single month, I used to wait for the moon to go up and worry that the next morning my mum would find me dead. It’s better now that I’m at school, Madam Pomfrey can fix me up quicker. And…I mean, if I did die, I’d rather she’d find me than Mum.”

He almost feels like laughing. “I think that’s pretty unfair. It’s unfair that I’ll never be able to get a job or have a family, it’s unfair that Dad couldn’t look at me…”

Remus wants very badly to be out of the trophy room. He slowly gets to his feet. The other three are staring at him.

“I don’t want you to do it,” he says. “It wouldn’t work, and you could die or get arrested. It’s not fair, alright? But that’s how it is, I guess.” He turns to James. “Was there anything else for the meeting?”

“What?”

“The emergency friend meeting,” he says. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?” He supposes it’s polite to ask.

James shakes his head. “No, don’t think so.”

Remus nods. “I’ll see you lot later, then.”

He leaves.

 

***

 

Even though nobody’s saying or doing anything differently, Peter swears things feel odd for a whole week after that. It’s not until the four of them are in the library one day before winter holidays, doing horrifically boring research on Swelling Solutions, that James brings it up again.

“Listen, Remus,” he says, “I want to make it up to you about the other day.”

Remus looks uncomfortable. “I don’t know what you mean, you didn’t—”

“Nah, listen. I get that this is serious stuff, and you don’t like us being…” He drums his fingers on the open book in front of him. “Black, what was that one word?”

Sirius stops chewing on his quill to say, “Cavalier.”

“Yeah, that. Your furry little problem isn’t—”

“I was afraid that that’d stick,” Remus mumbles.

“We get that it isn’t the same thing as, y’know, putting a Slipping Jinx on the floor outside the Slytherin common room, is all.”

“When’d we do that?” asks Peter.

“That was when we had to clean out cauldrons for Slughorn for about eight hours last year, remember?”

Peter thinks. “No.”

“I’ve been thinking about how to make it up to you.”

Remus grimaces. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Well,” says James with a shrug, “it’ll be happening in— what time have we got?”

Sirius looks at his watch. “Less than a minute.”

Quill dropping from his hand, Remus sits bolt upright in his chair. “What.”

“Shhh, you’ll love it,” James says soothingly. “It’s vengeance.”

“Vengeance…?” Peter can’t blame Remus for looking somewhat panicked; it’s morning break on a bleak and chilly day, and the library is packed with people.

Whatever it is that James has concocted, about a quarter of the school is about to witness it.

“I was in here researching werewolves and stuff, right,” James explains, “and there was this one book I found, it must’ve been about a thousand years old, and it was all full of just the nastiest, _stupidest_ shite I’ve ever seen and I’m positive that half of it was made up. It was called, like, _Lycaon: Nature’s Mistress_ —”

“ _Menace_ ,” Remus corrects. Sirius snorts.

“Yeah, that, you’ve told us about it! That’s the one that—”

“—I asked Madam Pince about,” Remus finishes, rolling his eyes, “and she said it was ‘part of the Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum’.”

James flaps his hands, which he only does when he’s either very excited or very agitated. The two states have a way of looking rather similar on him, Peter’s noticed.

“Yeah! And I remembered you telling us about it and how dumb it was but I never actually _read_ it, and— Merlin’s lacy brassiere, lads, you wouldn’t _believe_ the crap they wrote in there. Like, there’s a whole chapter on werewolves eating babies.”

“In the author’s defense,” Remus says mildly, “I think he simply crossed his mythologies, mixing up werewolves and hags. Though I’m not sure where the bit about ‘ritualistic harvesting of human livers’ comes from. I’m not sure who would do that. Or why.”

“Anyway,” James continues, “I asked her, I said, ‘listen here, you crotchety old bat—’”

“Just like that, I presume,” says Remus.

“‘—listen,’ I said, ‘this book is useless garbagey dragon shite, why’s it even here?’ And she shouted at me! Told me I didn’t know what I was talking about!”

“She almost smacked him with a textbook,” Sirius adds. “It was marvelous.”

“How much time have we got, Black?”

He checks his watch again. “Ten seconds.”

“Bollocks. Alright, so, obviously I couldn’t just take that lying down, right? Something needed to be done, and I thought about it, and remember that thing Flitwick mentioned, the Geminio Charm? Well I figured it out, and as it turns out it’s—”

James doesn’t get to the end of that sentence, because out of nowhere the silence of the library is shattered by a clamorous ringing sound that makes them all clap their hands over their ears. While yelps of surprise bounce from all corners of the library, Peter realizes that the horrible sound is familiar.

“Hang on, is that my—?”

“That awful alarm clock your mum sent you?” James shouts over the din, hands over his ears. “Yes, and, as it turns out, it does get louder!”

“Why’d you keep the bloody thing?” yells Remus.

“Sirius’ idea, he swore it’d come in handy!”

Sirius grins. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

At the other end of the library, they hear shrill screaming that is unmistakably Madam Pince’s, followed by running footsteps. The footsteps get louder and louder until they stop a few rows away, then, moments later, the ringing cuts off. A few people sigh in relief.

“Wait for it,” whispers James.

“ _Who_ ,” rails Madam Pince, “what _depraved_ —”

From the far side of the library, an alarm clock clatters and clangs.

Peter turns to look at Remus, and sees a wicked grin growing on his face. “You didn’t,” he says.

James beams. “Fourteen of ’em, set fifteen seconds apart.”

Everybody else in the library catches on to the joke quickly, and the noise of the clocks and Madam Pince’s deranged shrieking is joined in by an uproar of laughter. Which is lucky, Peter reckons, otherwise the four of them being quite beside themselves would be a lot more conspicuous.

A few minutes later, at the height of the alarm clocks’ ear-splitting crescendo, the library has nearly emptied and Madam Pince seems to have come quite unhinged. She shows no signs of giving up, but appears to have become disoriented; as more and more clocks ring, she manages to turn fewer and fewer off. She sprints up and down the aisles, spitting with rage.

Meanwhile, James is reveling.

“It is I,” he proclaims, standing and puffing out his chest, “ _Vengeance!_ ”

Remus struggles to speak through his laughter. “Sit down, Vengeance, you’ll get us detention. Why doesn’t she just Summon them?”

James peers around the corner. “Hang on, I reckon she’s just had the same idea— great minds, and all that—” He dodges a smack from Remus.

From where he’s sitting Peter can’t see what’s going on, but he can hear enough to gather: a cry of “ _Accio clocks!_ ”, the great rushing sound of many small objects flying through the air, and a racket that can only be an onslaught of fourteen alarm clocks knocking a woman to the floor.

The four boys roar with laughter.

“That,” Remus says, gasping for breath, “was horribly mean, James.”

Continuing to watch the action through a gap in the books, James waves a hand. “She’s fine. And I…” He turns on the spot, punches the air, and cries, “…am VENGEANCE!”

Peter listens. “Are those footsteps?”

After glancing through the gap again, James turns briskly for the aisle. “Yep, she heard us. Time to go, lads.”

Sirius nods and scrambles after. “Yep, good thinking.”

All of them get detention for a week after James’ act of ‘vengeance’— nobody believes it was just one of them working alone— and Peter gets an angry letter from home. He can’t find it in himself to mind.

The only part of the whole thing that throws him for a loop happens on their first day of detention, where they’re assigned to, of all places, the trophy room.

He and Sirius are polishing one particularly large and boring plaque when James sidles over. On the pretense of getting another rag he bends down next to them, whispers in their ears, “By the way, we’re still doing it,” and walks off.

 

***

 


	4. raw power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You haven’t got to. But he’s your friend, he won’t be revolted. It’s not allowed of friends.”
> 
> “Yeah. I reckon it isn’t.”

 

 

 

***

 

Sirius wakes up on Christmas morning to the owl he and Regulus share tapping on his window. When he grabs the letter, he sees it addressed to _ENORMOUS BERK, 12 ROTTEN STUFFY PLACE, ISLINGTON_ in James’ chicken scratch handwriting.

 

_Sirius,_

_I don’t know why you don’t just CURSE the lot of them and make a break for it. The one we tried on Aubrey would work nicely—keep them distracted long enough, anyway. Then you could start your life as a VAGRANT, living on the streets and beating people up and hanging out in dark alleys. It sounds like a right exciting life if you ask me._

_Answering your question about ‘the plan’: THERE IS NO PLAN other than ‘James sneaks into the Restricted Section and digs out all the Animagus books he can find and distributes them between his two dumb and useless friends’, which we’ve already got covered. Now that I’ve got some free time away from Remus I might be able to get somewhere with it, but I’ve just been through this bloody book for about the four thousandth time and it STILL reads like it’s been translated into Gobbledegook. When we get back we’re going to have to have ANOTHER party in the Restricted Section to look up all the stuff we don’t get in these, and then another one to look up all THOSE words, and so on and so on and so on until we figure it out OR die but if we DO DIE we will die knowing we gave it the OLD GRYFFINDOR TRY, and what more can a man expect of himself, I ask you?_

_So, to summarise:_

_THE PLAN (AS IT STANDS):_

_-become ANIMAGI (DIFFICULT AND IMPROBABLE)_

_-do it WITHOUT REMUS NOTICING (more DIFFICULT AND IMPROBABLE)_

_-be GODS among MEN_

_I eagerly await your response about the cursing, and if you haven’t got the guts to do it then you’ll have plenty of time to work on your Animagus book, won’t you? Me, you, and Pete can write up notes and stuff and compare when we get back, or rather you and Pete will fill me in on what you read because mine has, as mentioned, been translated to GOBBLEDEGOOK or perhaps MERMISH._

_Happy Christmas,_

_JAMES WARREN BHARGAVA POTTER_

 

Sirius has just sat down at his desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment when a loud _crack_ behind him makes him jump.

“Kreacher! What’ve I said about that?!”

“Young Master’s door was locked,” comes the croaking reply.

“That’s when you’re supposed to _knock_.”

“Mistress Black asked Kreacher to fetch Young Master.”

“I’m not going.”

Kreacher glowers up at him. “My Mistress wishes Young Master to come downstairs.”

“Are you deaf as you are ugly?” Sirius growls, pushing past Kreacher. He throws himself down onto his bed and says into the bedspread, “I’m not going.”

“Kreacher has his orders from Mistress Black, Kreacher must obey his orders—”

“Then I order you to leave me alone. Or just die, whichever you like.”

With a crack, Kreacher vanishes. A few moments later, a scream drifts up from downstairs.

“ _Sirius!_ ”

“Euuuugh.” Sirius falls back onto his bed for a moment before shouting back, “Coming!”

Sirius hates Christmas.

He does his best to stay out of this house, and normally he’s fairly good at it. He wanders in the city or visits Brianna or, when he feels like navigating the Underground, visits Remus. When he can’t do those things he locks himself in his room and writes letters to his friends. They don’t let him do any of that on stupid bloody Christmas. 

Sirius faces his door and tells his hand to reach up and twist the knob, but nothing happens. Staring at the blank wood in front of him, he thinks about how pathetic it is that he, a Gryffindor, can’t find the courage to face his stupid parents, of all things. He doesn’t feel like himself in this house. This place makes him feel like somebody else entirely, somebody he doesn’t know or like.

For no reason he can tell, he hears Lily’s voice in his head. _You need it more than I do._

He goes over to his trunk and finds, stuffed in the pocket of his robes, the purple-red pencil. Without really knowing why, he goes over to the mirror and carefully, slowly, traces it around both of his eyes. When he’s done, he studies the effect. It doesn’t look as nice as when Lily did it; the lines are wobblier.

 _I look like me, though_ , he thinks, and heads downstairs.

Mother, Father, and Regulus are already sitting in the drawing room, and Kreacher is serving tea. Mother stirs hers with no apparent plan of ever drinking it, instead talking at Father while he reads _The Daily Prophet_.

“Another of those awful Muggle buildings was burned down, did you see?” she says. “The Ministry’s decided to employ an entire task force to investigate. They’ve hidden it in the back pages, they’re embarrassed.” She scoffs. “Rightly, too. Wasting time and money, don’t know _what_ this government’s come to. Muggle-loving bureaucrats, that’s what they all are in the Ministry. My dear, I do think you’re the only one with a shred of self-respect among the whole lot.”

In his quiet voice, Father says, “Not for long, I believe.”

“How do you mean?”

Absorbed in his reading, Father mumbles, “The tide is turning,” and explains no further.

 

_***_

 

James flies his new broom all Christmas morning, the cold be damned. It's _magnificent_ , every bit as good as _Which Broomstick?_ 's been raving about for months. He doesn't head back home until early afternoon, his hands and feet and nose numb with cold but not caring a bit.

He runs for the sitting room to thank his parents for the thousandth time and recount the story of how he just narrowly avoided some Muggle kids flying a kite, and in the corridor he hears voices. James forgot Mum and Dad were inviting Mr and Mrs Harper over for Christmas tea. They're the old couple who live in the house nearest theirs, about half a mile away and close to the Muggle village. James usually finds them rather boring, but there's an urgency to the conversation in the sitting room that makes him hover by the doorway, out of sight, and listen.

"...noticed something's going on," comes Mrs Harper's wispy voice. "Was chatting with the lady in the village garden shop and she mentioned it. It’s been on their news.”

“It’s been mostly Muggles, makes sense they’re taking notice,” says Dad. “Buildings set on fire! Would catch attention, I should think.”

“It’s ironic, I reckon they’re getting more coverage in their papers than we are,” says Mr Harper. “Cecily and I missed it entirely at first, dear, didn’t we?”

“No, didn’t know at all— Archie’s brother came calling one day and said, ‘What about those fires, then?’ and we hadn’t the foggiest what he was talking about. Been happening for a year or more, and we hadn’t heard a peep about it. Kept it to the back pages, I threw it out with the weather reports.”

“Think it’s on purpose?” Dad asks.

“I can’t imagine that it’s not,” Mum says. “Seems as though something like that should make the front page, doesn’t it? The Ministry leans on the _Prophet_ , it’s no secret. Begs the question what they’re trying to hush up.”

“Oh, rumours, dear, rumours,” Mrs Harper says.

“Rumours?”

“That they’re organized, the attacks. People are saying— or so Archie’s brother says, he’s still with the Obliviator Headquarters—”

“We’ve been after him to retire for ages, ever since that fiasco with the goblins, what was it, sixty-two? ‘The stress, Ellis, on a man your age,’ I tell him—”

“—and he says there are rumours within the Ministry. You two are too young to remember—”

“Not often you can say that,” jokes Dad.

“—but naturally everybody old enough gets very anxious, he was never in power here but they say he was close to taking Britain if Dumbledore—”

“I heard stories when I first started with International Magical Cooperation,” Mum says. “Some of my superiors at the time were on the front lines then, goodness, such dreadful things…”

“So, that’s the rumour, then? That it’s happening here this time?”

“I don’t think anybody thinks that,” Mr Harper replies. “But Ellis got quite nervous when I asked further, that’s for certain. Nasty business.”

“These things make everybody anxious. My heart goes out to those poor people, but I won’t suppose it’s a group of radicals behind it until we’ve any evidence,” says Mrs Harper.

“Suppose we can’t start a panic, can we?” says Dad. “We’ve got our people on it with the Muggle police helping, they’ll sort it out soon enough.”

“One hopes,” says Mum. “It’s been a year and they don’t seem any closer, do they?”

“Such jolly attitude on Christmas, darling! Right, anybody know any good dirges?”

Mum laughs. “Alright, alright.” The distinctive sound of cup-meets-saucer. “Warren, I think our son’s frozen to death.”

“Has he? Excellent, I was getting bored of him.”

“Laugh it up, you two,” James says, bounding around the corner and savouring Mum’s little jump of surprise. “See who takes care of you when you’re old.”

Dad springs to his feet and gives James’ hair a playful tousle. “Oy, who just bought you a racing broom, eh?”

“It’s _excellent_ ,” James says, beaming to him and Mum. He says his hellos and happy Christmases to Mr and Mrs Harper, then turns to Dad again. “You should’ve seen me! There were these Muggles with a kite and they _almost_ saw me but I—”

“Let’s not give your mother a heart attack, pal. Up for some one-on-one?”

“It’s freezing out!” Mum says with a laugh.

“That’s what they make cloaks for,” James says. He tugs on Dad’s sleeve, says “Race you!” and starts for the back door at a run.

 

***

 

“Peter, shut that off,” Aunt Esther calls over her shoulder as she pours Uncle Stanley mulled wine. “Too dark for Christmas Day, I should think.”

She isn’t wrong; on the news they’re talking about a whole family in Gloucester that died. Somebody burned their house down. Peter leans forward and switches the television off.

“Don’t know what’s wrong with the world these days,” says Uncle Stanley. “Third one I seen this week. On Christmas, too; it’s right dodgy, isn’t it?”

On the other side of Aunt Esther and Uncle Stanley’s sitting room, in the armchair by the Christmas tree, Granddad makes one of his displeased growly noises. “Sailor Ted’s behind it, mark me words.”

“So the Prime Minister’s burning down houses, now?” teases Aunt Esther. She sits down on the sofa next to Peter and drops him a wink.

“Didn’t say that, only saying he’s a bleeding coward,” says Granddad. “Didn’t do nothing to wallop those miners back into shape— know what they’d do in the old days? Smack ’em round the ears until they pulled their weight, that’s what.”

“See, Maddie?” Uncle Stanley turns around and talks to Mum as she comes into the room, carrying a platter of Christmas cake. “Heath should’ve just given all the miners a good smack each, that’d fix the economy right on up.”

Mum sets the cake down with a huff. “Dad, I’d die a happy woman if we could go _one day_ without—”

“What’s he going to do about the arson, eh?” Granddad demands of no one in particular. “Churches burned to the ground on Christmas Day, nothing Christian about it, it’s just like the damned Fascists—”

“Oh, not the Fascists again…” mutters Mum. She sits down at the table next to Uncle Stanley and pours herself a tall glass of mulled wine.

“The Labourers are no good neither, but the whole bloody Conservative party’s got its head up its arse—”

“ _Dad_ ,” Mum scolds.

“—electing a pillock like that; coward and a Fascist, and a queer besides.”

“A what?” asks Peter.

“ _Dad!_ ” Mum says, louder this time. “You and your foul mouth will put me in me grave early.”

“Load of twod.” Granddad flaps a hand at her. “All I’m trying to say is that there’s a reason there’s no jobs left, there’s a reason Maddie’s out of a job on Christmas and it’s _mismanagement_ , you mark me words.”

“Lots to mark,” Uncle Stanley says, “You haven’t shut your gob since the bloody armistice.”

He and Aunt Esther laugh outright; Mum snorts into her wine. Then the sitting room door opens, and Rosemary pokes her head in. “You lot done shouting at each other? I always miss the excitement.”

“Hush, Rosie. Where’re the others?”

“Clive’s put a snowball down Roger’s shirt and it was a bit of a ruckus, give it a moment.”

The room becomes significantly more crowded after the addition of Peter’s five cousins, and within minutes it’s descended into a chaos of voices and rustling paper.

“Ta, Pete,” says Clive, opening the socks he gave him. “Dead useful, these. I’m having another growth spurt, Mum says. Feet keep getting too big for me socks.”

Peter smiles, relieved. He felt guilty for picking out such terribly boring presents for his cousins, but there wasn’t a lot of money for gifts. Ever since Mum lost her job, they’ve been living on Granddad’s pension. He digs some peanuts and a bright green Super Ball out of his Christmas stocking and jokes, “Thanks for the update.”

Sitting on the carpet at his feet, Rosemary laughs. “The what, Peter?”

“Sorry?”

“What’d you say?”

“Thanks for the update,” he repeats, confused.

Clive’s laughing too, and Roger and Kenneth, and even little Joan. “The what?” asks Roger.

“The _update_ ,” Peter nearly shouts. The five of them laugh again, and then he remembers.

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry.” Feeling himself going red, he’s careful to switch into his Lancashire vowels when he says, “Update.”

Rosemary sniggers. “We’re only joking. I think it’s funny.”

“It’s hilarious!” adds Clive. “You’re talking more and more like a Southern tart with every holiday! What’s in the water at that fancy school of yours, eh?”

He’s not wrong; Granddad declared as much the moment he first heard him speak last Christmas hols. It’s not like Peter does it on purpose, these moments when his mouth slips. It just happens.

The thing is, none of his friends talk at all like he does. Remus isn’t the problem, he’s not so posh: his middle-of-the-road London is a far cry from Cockney, but it’s not too proper either. Even James isn’t so bad— really, it’s Sirius. Peter’s never heard anybody talk so much like the queen before. Plus, Sirius seems to find Peter’s natural accent quite funny.

“It’s—it’s me friends,” Peter stammers. He hears his voice squeaking nervously, which, as always, only makes the nerves worse. “They talk really posh. It— I— it rubs off sometimes, I reckon,” he finishes quietly.

Their teasing tapers off and everybody goes back to opening presents, but Peter suspects his face is still red and blotchy.

 

***

 

Sirius goes to the tree and immediately begins distributing the parcels underneath. The sooner everybody’s opened their stuff, the sooner he can leave.

“You’ve been hogging Charon,” says Regulus.

Sirius tosses a silver and gold wrapped package at his head. “Have not.”

“Have so.”

“What d’you need an owl for anyway? Who’ve you got to talk to? You’re a baby, babies don’t have friends.”

“I’m not a baby!”

“You’re ten, you don’t even go to school yet, so shut it.”

“Mother doesn’t like your friends. She says they’re bad influences on you.”

“That’s ’cause she’s jealous, ’cause she hasn’t got any friends, nobody likes her.”

“Don’t you _start_ , Sirius.” Mother takes a deep breath, toying absently with her necklace. “It’s Christmas.”

“So?”

Everybody unwrapping one gift at a time takes a thousand years. Nothing happens until Sirius opens a new set of stiff-collared, ancient-looking dress robes.

“You’ll wear those to your aunt and uncle’s tonight,” Mother says brightly. “Your old ones have gotten quite—”

“What’s it matter how I look? They all hate me anyway, and I hate them.”

Her face scrunches up like it always does when she’s angry. “I will not have your attitude today, young man, I will not have it.”

“Tell me when you will have it, then— I’ve got plenty saved up.”

“Here we go,” grumbles Regulus.

“Oh, I just can’t understand it!” she explodes. “What more can I do? We give you all the opportunities in the world and you throw it in our faces! Your ingratitude is…is shameful! Owls from the school at all hours, telling me of your— your _antics_ , it’s shameful, Sirius, it’s disgraceful! How you can have so little dignity, so little respect for the traditions of the family that brought you up— don’t you roll your eyes at me! Your rudeness is—”

“Guess you’re Miss Manners,” Sirius mutters.

“And I’m not told all of it by the school, no!” she continues, growing shriller with every breath. “The stories I hear! I had to be told by Volumnia Nott how you and that blood traitor boy tormented her son, and the _humiliation_ , you cannot imagine!”

“‘Tormented’?” Sirius snorts. “We gave him some boils and Madam Pomfrey magicked them off in about a minute, that’s a bit much.”

“I don’t care how quickly they were gone!” she snaps. “The Notts are a wonderful family, a _noble_ line, immaculate blood on all sides, and to target their innocent son was an awful, awful thing to do! You might think of _us_ every now and again, of how you do embarrass your poor mother!”

“He wasn’t innocent!”

Regulus jumps in. “What’d he do?”

“He’s a Slytherin and I don’t like his face.”

“That’s not anything!”

“It’s plenty,” Sirius says. “He’s a git and I don’t like him.”

“It was _mean_ ,” Regulus says. “You’re a bully. What’s on your face, anyway?”

Mother blinks, thrown off. “What, darling?”

“His face, he’s got something on his face.”

The exact moment she notices flashes across her face; she squints, confused. “What is that?”

“Oh,” Sirius says. For a second he wonders if this was such a great idea. “Eyeliner, my friend gave it to me. It looks way cool. Rock stars wear it.”

While Mother is, for once, lost for words, Regulus gives him a look like he’s bloody insane.

“Boys don’t wear makeup,” he says.

“Sure they do.”

“No they don’t.”

“Well I’m a boy and I’m wearing it, so they do, so shut up.”

“You won’t in this house,” Father says.

All three of their heads snap up toward Father on the sofa. He doesn’t look at any of them, just sips his tea.

Mother’s face drops. Sirius feels his heartbeat fly into his throat; Mother’s rage is shrill and constant but Father has a temperament like a sleeping snake.

Sirius swallows around his beating heart. “Won’t I?”

“You won’t.” He gives Sirius a hard, even stare with eyes the same colour as his.

Sirius hears Mother say in a thin, nervous voice, “Dear?”

“Go wash it off,” Father tells him.

Sirius wills his voice not to shake. In his head he repeats, _Where dwell the brave at heart, where dwell the brave at heart_. “Don’t think I will, thanks,” he says.

Clearing his throat, Father reaches for his wand. He gives it a short flick and murmurs, “ _Scourgify_.”

Sirius’ eyes sear like a thousand bee stings. He hears himself cry out in pain but he barely notices, too busy pawing desperately at his face; his hands scoop away something foamy from his eyes, squeezed shut against the horrible, horrible burning, but there’s so _much_ of it—

From Mother’s end of the sofa Sirius hears the sound of springs creaking, then comes Father’s voice: “Leave it.” There’s a moment of pause, and then: “I don’t like to repeat myself, dear.”

She sits back down.

After a moment of desperate fumbling, Sirius finally feels his hand close around his untouched cup of lukewarm tea. He clumsily tips it over his face, gasping at the slight relief, then picks up the nearest throw pillow. He presses his face into the fabric, heaving out short, panting breaths. When he looks up again, soaked and sticky and teary-eyed, he sees Mother watching him, stricken. He drops his eyes to fix resolutely on the unwrapped box in his lap. The ugly dress robes are sodden and soapy, tea-stained.

The quiet is stifling. Sirius won’t look up. He doesn’t want to know what Regulus’ face looks like right now and he tries very hard not to think about it.

As anyone could’ve predicted, Mother is the first to speak.

“Of course your father’s absolutely right,” she says bracingly. “Remember that you can’t be too careful with behaviour like that. It breeds perversion even in the best families, doesn’t it, my dear? There was that, oh, that cousin of the Rosier’s,” she continues, “what was it, fifteen years ago? Perhaps twenty? We were rather young, didn’t understand it at the time-- when was it, dear?”

Father hums. “Mm, about twenty.”

“Yes,” she goes on. She’s fallen comfortably into one of her sermons; normalcy is restored. “Shame to her blood, of course, unspeakable shame. Lucky they were of such sterling breeding aside or I think they mightn’t ever have recovered, reputation alone— even now it’s a stain on them, what she did, such an unfortunate thing, you know the Rosiers and better people you couldn’t possibly imagine, my heart does go out to them. Didn't deserve the ordeal she put them through. Such a terrible, terrible, _horrific_ thing.”

Sirius’ curiosity outweighs his silence. “What happened, what’d she do?”

“Never you mind,” says Mother. “Just remember, remember this: when blood is—”

“What happened?” Sirius says.

“I said never mind!” she snaps. “To speak of such things in, in _detail_ ,” she continues, mouth pinched with distaste, “is certainly not appropriate, I should think not. Regulus, dear, open the red one next.”

It’s strange indeed. Never in living memory has Mother had a piece of gossip that was too horrific to talk about, and at length; lecturing on the shames of their friends and relatives is, after all, her favourite pastime.

He finds it so mysterious that even after he’s finally excused from the drawing room he thinks about it, lying on his bed rubbing his still-stinging eyes. What could be so bad, he wonders, that even Mother won’t talk about it? Did the Rosiers’ cousin kill a whole bunch of people, or take up eating kittens, or what? And whatever it was, what has it got to do with boys wearing makeup?

 

***

 

It’s warm and cozy in the little flat, the Christmas tree’s red and green lights blinking merrily. The television’s tuned to the queen’s speech but neither of them are paying attention; it’s a tradition with Remus and his mum that Christmas afternoon is spent reading a new book. They’re curled up on either end of the sofa, knotty old afghan thrown over their legs in the middle.

Remus is very much enjoying his present— it’s a historical drama full of swordfights and intrigue, she knows him so well— when Mum puts down her book and says, “Oh, hang on.” She kicks off the blanket, stands up, and turns for the kitchen. “I’ve got another present for you.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“Books.”

Something heavy plops onto his lap. It’s a paper bag from their favourite bookshop. He looks inside.

Horror overcomes him.

“Oh no.”

“Read them at your leisure,” she says casually, settling back into her sofa corner. “You’re getting to the age where you’ll have questions.”

Remus lets go of the bag, knocks it to the floor. “No questions. I— I haven’t got any questions.”

“Sweetheart, if you’re an expert on the subject at twelve I’ve failed as a mother,” Mum replies, back to her own, non-horrifyingly embarrassing book. “Give them a look, and let me know if there’s any of the finer points you’d like to discuss.”

“But I—I—” Remus stammers, outraged. “Hang on, this was supposed to be the one perk of my condition, that we wouldn’t have to talk about this!”

“What?”

“Well, I…I’m not going to ever…go out and date anybody, am I?”

She looks at him, her expression unmistakably sad. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah I d—”

“Must be nice.”

Remus rolls his eyes to himself. “To know everything. Yeah, it’s nice.”

“You must try harder to not be such a defeatist all the time. You’ve got a tougher lot than most people, but ultimately you’re your own worst enemy.”

Deeply uncomfortable, Remus sighs. “I haven’t got to read them now, have I?”

Mum picks her book up again and snorts. “No. Get back to your pirates.”

Remus stretches his foot down to kick the bag even further under the sofa and out of sight. He goes back to reading.

 

***

 

Sirius hears a knock on his door. He groans. “Go away Kreacher!”

“It’s me,” comes Regulus’ voice.

“Oh. What do you want?”

“Can I come in?”

“Fine, whatever.” He flops backwards and looks at the ceiling. The door opens.

“Are your eyes okay?”

Sirius feels his face heat up. He flips over and hides it in his pillow. “Yeah, fine.”

Regulus doesn’t leave. Or Sirius doesn’t hear him, at least.

“You can have Charon, if that’s what you want,” Sirius says. He doesn’t feel like writing letters anyway.

“No, that’s alright.”

“What d’you want, then?”

“I just…I dunno. Do you want me to leave?”

Sirius sighs into his pillow, turns over, and sits up. “Nah.” Regulus stands by the door, looking uncomfortable. “You can sit down, you haven’t got to stand there forever.”

“Alright.” He walks over and sits cross-legged at the end of Sirius’ bed.

It’s been a long time, Sirius realizes, since they’ve talked like this. Or talked at all. Things between them have been different since he left for school, since his Sorting.

Used to, it felt like he and Regulus were one team. Against their governess when they were little, against their parents. It doesn’t feel like that anymore.

“That looked like it really hurt,” Regulus says. “What Dad did, I mean.”

Sirius shrugs. “Nah, not really.”

“Oh.”

“They’re just nasty gits, as usual. Nothing extraordinary.”

“You could be nicer, y’know.”

“Why would I do that? They aren’t nice to me.”

“Kreacher’s nice to you.”

“What’s Kreacher got to do with anything?”

“You could be nicer to him.”

Sirius snorts. “He’s a house elf, he’ll get over it. Besides, I hate him.”

“You could still be nicer, though,” Regulus mutters.

“What d’you think that cousin did, then?” Sirius asks. “The Rosiers’, I mean. Why wouldn’t Mum talk about it?”

Regulus bites his lip. “I know, actually. I know what happened.”

“No you don’t.”

“Do too.”

“Do not. How?”

“Heard them talking once, at Uncle Alphard’s. They didn’t know I was there. They were talking about it.”

“When?”

“Years ago.”

“What was it, then?” Sirius asks. “What’d she do?”

“Well, she ran off with somebody.”

“‘Ran off’? Like, married?”

“Sort of.”

“What, a Muggle?”

“No, well, I dunno, maybe she was. I think she was a witch. She was a girl, anyhow, that was the problem.”

“A girl?” Sirius says. “What d’you mean, a girl?”

“A girl, like, a girl, girl.”

“What’s she got to do with the Rosiers’ cousin?”

“She ran off with her. The Rosiers’ cousin ran off with another girl, that’s why everybody was angry.”

Sirius is lost. “Hang on. I thought you meant ‘ran off’ like _married_ ran off.”

“Well, sort of like that. Not married, because you can’t do that, but like boy-and-girl except with two girls, yeah.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “That’s not— that doesn't _happen_ , Reg, you can’t do that.”

“Yeah you can, it does, that’s the thing! That’s why it was a big deal.”

“Hang on, _what’s_ a big deal?”

“There’s a thing where girls like other girls like that, and the same with boys,” Regulus says. “Boys liking other boys, and stuff.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not. It’s real.”

“Pull the other one.”

“I swear! That’s what they said! Then I asked Andromeda if it was real and she said yeah it is, there are people like that.”

Sirius suddenly feels weird about his arms for some reason. He crosses them over his chest tightly. “There are boys that like other boys? Dromeda said that?”

“She said it ’cause it’s true.”

He feels as if he should say something, but his voice feels funny and he can’t think of anything. Shrugging, Regulus goes on.

“Yeah, it’s mad, but she’s never lied before. Suppose that’s why Mum didn’t want to talk about it, ’cause she didn’t want to have to go through and explain it all.”

“Yeah,” says Sirius.

“Are you going into the city today, d’you think? Before we go to the family thing?” asks Regulus.

“Dunno.”

“You should, Mum gets angry at me when I go without you and it’s hard sneaking out when she’s around all the time. She’s gone more when you aren’t here.”

“Don’t really feel like it.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t, okay?” he snaps. His voice is louder than he thought it’d be.

Regulus makes a face. “Alright, fine. Don’t be weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” he says. He’s loud without meaning to be again at the start of the sentence but he quickly corrects himself, so by the end he’s talking extra quietly. It probably sounds very odd.

“Whatever. Tell me if you go so I can go too, being cooped up is driving me mad.”

“Right,” he says. Regulus leaves.

For a while Sirius sits on his bed, not thinking about anything particularly.

He feels strange.

 

***

 

“What about you, Pettigrew? How was the haul?”

“Er.” Peter shoos Tesla off of his pyjamas and starts to tug them on. “Alright. I got a new jumper, and two comic books, and, er…”

James rolls his eyes. “You and those Muggle comics, I don’t understand it and I never will.”

“Didn’t you like that _Superboy_ I got you last year?”

“Er,” says James, digging through his trunk. “Yeah,” he says as he yanks out his pyjamas, “yeah, it was far out. What else you get?”

“Er.” Peter flounders for a moment. Does he explain to them about Mum’s job, and how these days he’s even poorer than before?

He spots something neon green in his trunk. He leaps at the distraction. “I got this in my stocking.” Peter unearths it and holds it up. “It’s a Super Ball.”

“Weird colour,” says Sirius as he reaches out and grabs it. He holds it up to the light and says, “What’s it do?”

“It’s a Muggle toy, you throw it and it—”

Sirius doesn’t wait to hear the end of the sentence before hurling the tiny rubber ball full-force at the dormitory wall opposite.

A minute or two later, after Peter has soothed an agitated Tesla and James successfully repaired his shattered lamp, Sirius eyes the Super Ball with new awe. “Wicked,” he declares, eyes glinting.

“From where you’re standing,” grumbles James, replacing scattered knick knacks on his nightstand. “What about you Black, what’d you get?”

“Nothing as far out as this,” Sirius says, still examining the neon green ball, which Peter’s sure can’t have cost more than ten pence, “but Brianna gave me two whole records— full LPs, even! She’s the best.” Sirius crawls under his covers. “Plus Malcolm says if he gives her a special address at the Hogsmeade post office they can transfer her letters from Muggle post to owls, so she can actually write to me now. She wouldn’t know they were sticking her letters onto owls, obviously, but he can tell her whatever she needs to hear, since she thinks he went to the same snobby boarding school I go to.”

“Guess he did, technically,” Peter says.

“You don’t think it’s dumb that you’re pals with a couple of Muggle grown-ups?” asks James.

“Only Brianna’s a Muggle, and she’s brilliant,” says Sirius defensively. “Even if she still won’t let me ride on her motorbike. She’s, y’know, protective of me, looks out for me. She’s like the mum I never had.”

As he climbs into his own bed Peter asks, “I thought that was Mrs Potter?”

“Ah, well, of course you’re right. And she likes me better than she likes James, besides.” Sirius thinks for a moment. “Alright, so Brianna’s the immature, dysfunctional godmother I never had.”

“There you go.”

“Remus? What’d you get?”

To Peter’s surprise, Remus’ face darkens. “Well, there was the normal stuff, from Mum. But, er. She also got me…er.”

Sirius sits up, grinning. “What? What’d she get you?”

“Was it a dress?” James crows. “A pony?”

“No, er,” says Remus. He goes over to his trunk and starts rifling through it, and Peter thinks he sees him going a bit red. “Well, she got me books.”

“So?” says James. “You love books.”

Remus straights quickly, pyjamas in his arms and a look of horror on his face. “Not these books.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Er…” He faces away from them as he changes clothes. He hasn’t been embarrassed about his scars for forever, though, so Peter can only assume it’s to hide his reddening face. “Mum’s an academic, you see? So, oftentimes, she has a rather…academic way of handling things. Particularly, er, sensitive subjects.”

Sirius, by contrast, looks as though he’s rather enjoying himself. “What? What subject?”

“She said, erm, that I— well, you see, she said I was reaching an age when people, young men, got to asking themselves, well, questions, and she figured—”

“Spit it out, Lupin,” laughs James.

“She got me…Kinsey.”

“I don’t know what that is,” says Peter, feeling stupid.

“Me neither.”

“Nor me. C’mon, what’d she get you?”

Remus turns around, arms still pinned to his side by his half-on pyjama top, and with the air of ripping off a plaster to get it done quickly says, “She got me sex books, alright?”

All three of them roar with laughter. Remus looks like he wants to die.

“Let’s see them!” shouts James gleefully, “Are they helpful? Full of useful tips?”

“They’re,” says Remus, looking haunted, “graphic.”

James only laughs harder.

“Not—not, like, in a, a _pornographic_ way. They’re clinical! So clinical! It’s awful!”

“What do they talk about, then? Are you _learning_?” There’s an evil grin on James’ face. “There’s got to be some wonderfully weird stuff to learn about.”

Sirius speaks extraordinarily quickly when he says, “My cousin said there are girls who like girls and boys who like boys, like, like that. Talk about weird.”

The three of them turn to look at Sirius.

James is making a face of utter astonishment. “Have you honestly never heard the word ‘gay’ before?” he asks. “I know you old school purebloods are sheltered and all, but. Blimey, mate.”

“So that does happen?”

“Yeah, it _happens_ , you plonker, what bubble have you been in? It’s against the law and all that, but people do it anyway. What’s the sudden interest?”

Sirius looks angry. “Not interest, I just hadn’t heard of it before, is all.”

“Well, mate, there are poofs in the world, there’s your bubble burst. Anyway,” he continues, turning now on Remus, “I suppose you’ll be an expert with the ladies now, won’t you, with your,” he gives a suggestive squirm of his eyebrows, “books?”

Remus throws a pillow at his face.

 

***

 

It’s the middle of the night when they stumble back into the dormitory and throw the Cloak off, but Remus is wide awake reading a book anyway. Busted.

“Oh, er, hey there,” James says, as if he hasn’t just been caught red-handed.

Remus doesn’t look suspicious, at least, but he’s clearly confused. “Where were you lot?”

Sirius feels James thinking up some mad excuse at his side; he buys some time. “What’re you doing up?”

“I woke up a bit ago. Couldn’t fall back asleep.”

Past the window, the moon is big and white. “Feeling moon-y, then?”

Peter raises his eyebrows at him. “‘Moony’?”

“You know what I mean.”

“A bit moony, yeah,” Remus answers. He sits up straighter in bed. “You lot are up to something.”

“Yep, yeah, we are, you’ve caught us,” James says. Sirius sees him shift the books under his arm as if to hide their titles under his sleeve, a much harder feat in pyjamas than it is in robes. “We went to the Restricted Section to research a new prank we’re doing. Great one, too! Just a— just a really, really far out new prank. We were going to keep it a surprise for you— because it’s so far out, that is— but, well, the jig’s up, I guess.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, well, here’s the thing, it’s…” Sirius watches James’ eyes flit around the dormitory for inspiration and sees them land on Peter’s bed, where Tesla is curled up, gnawing on the bright green Super Ball that’d nearly destroyed the place a couple of weeks ago. “Super Balls.”

“…Oh?”

There’s real excitement on James’ face now. “Yeah, yeah, see, here’s what we’re going to do: remember that _Geminio_ spell, the one I did on the alarm clocks? We’re gonna do that like a million times on that ball. Just one of them almost broke a window when Black chucked it, remember? Imagine what we could do with a bunch of them.”

“I don’t know if I want to.”

“Oh, you’ll see.” James grins. “I’ve a plan.”

“What did you have to go to the Restricted Section for, though? You did the spell perfectly last time.”

James shifts the books again. “Wanted to, er, read up on the theory. I’m knackered, good night.” And he dives onto his four-poster and pulls the curtains shut.

“So I guess we’re doing a Super Ball prank now?” Sirius asks him the next morning. They're crossing the common room for the portrait hole. “We haven’t got enough on our plates, trying to be Animagi without him finding out?”

“Rest assured, Black, you won’t regret it,” James says. “Lying to Remus gave me the _best_ idea, listen to this…”

 

***

 

“How many have you got now?” James asks.

Sirius peers into his bag and counts. “Five,” he says.

The _Geminio_ spell is a difficult one— James told them, quite casually, that he found it in an O.W.L. spellbook— but that doesn’t stop Sirius from getting the hang of it in about fifteen minutes. It’s annoying, being friends with the smartest kids in the school. Peter’s sat in the common room three evenings in a row trying to get the spell to work, but the Super Ball under his wand stayed stubbornly singular. Sirius, on the other hand, is sticking his wand under the table and muttering the incantation even now, in the middle of Potions.

Peter’s the only one of the three who’s actually working on the assigned potion. Sirius continues multiplying Super Balls while James busies himself with sulking.

“Merlin, he looked awful, didn’t he? He looked awful.”

“He always looks awful,” Sirius points out. They visited Remus in the hospital wing during lunch.

“Yeah, but especially today. And you saw how moony he was right before. His fulls are getting worse, I reckon.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, just gets to chopping up rat tails for the Hair-Raising Potion. Secretly, he suspects James is projecting a bit.Ever since he introduced the Animagus idea, the full moon seems to effect James worse than it does Remus. It’s as if every transformation their friend goes through alone is personally offensive to him. Peter thinks he’s being rather dramatic. Which isn’t, after all, so out of character for James, but still.

Peter would never ever say it out loud, but he doesn’t think the Animagus plan will work. The three of them keep going through these big dusty books, but they never make any more sense than the first time they read them. Sirius and James, brilliant geniuses that they are, haven’t seemed at all discouraged by this yet.

But Peter knows he isn’t like them. The horrible sinking feeling of _not belonging_ fills his stomach every time one of them brings it up, because he _knows_ he won’t be able to do it. Even if they do get past the first research stage, what happens when the three of them try to actually do the spell and Peter can’t pull it off? Will James and Sirius laugh at him? Never speak to him again?

“Can’t we just tell him about the, er, thing already?” Sirius says. “It’d cheer him up, and it’d let us move a hell of a lot faster if we didn’t have to keep it secret.”

“Don’t be daft, you remember how he was when I first brought it up. It’s got to stay a secret, and that’s that.”

“What about once we’ve got it? Can’t keep it a secret then.”

“He’ll be so happy and proud of us that he won’t even remember to be angry, trust me.”

“Quite enough chit-chat, boys!” Slughorn calls across the room. “Can’t be falling behind— it’s got to have time to stew, you see.”

“ _Got to have time to stew_ ,” James mimics under his breath. “When am I ever going to need to raise somebody’s hair? We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

“Let’s just get it done quickly, then,” says Sirius. He grabs the cutting board from Peter and swaps it with the mortar and pestle. “You chop too slow, crush up the lavender instead.” He takes the knife in one hand, his wand still in the other, and begins to chop and spell under the table at once.

“Is that a good idea?” Peter asks.

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Sirius says. He looks down into his bag while chopping. “ _Geminio.”_

“I’ll grant you’re right about the ‘secret’ part slowing us down,” James says, measuring out dried lavender. “At least we’ve had a couple of days to research without him underfoot. I don’t suppose you lot have found anything new?”

“Y’know, I was thinking about this one thing,” Sirius answers. Still juggling wand and knife, he starts a new rat tail. “I know we reckoned that the ‘initial bodily transformative draught ritual’ thing the book mentions a thousand times is that big weird recipe at the beginning, remember, but I was wondering if maybe that’s not it at all, if it’s something else entirely? Like, before any of the stuff in the book, there’s another ritual you have to do _first_ before any of it and that before you— _ouch._ ”  The knife clatters to the table, the blade splattered red.

“Er,” Peter says.

James hasn’t noticed, busy with his lavender. “I reckon that would make sense, it’d explain why the big weird recipe doesn’t make any sense compared to the stuff the book talks about later. But then what would the first ritual be? Some other potion, I guess, but where do we get that? We’ve been up and down the Restricted Section, what do we do now? Merlin’s pants, I don’t even know where to start with this whole thing— seems like all the books assume you know loads to begin with. Plus, it’s right annoying how much potions stuff is involved. I’m spectacular at Transfiguration, sure, but _potions?_ I don’t—”

“Er,” Peter says again, more urgently this time.

“Shut up, Pete,” Sirius mutters. He clutches his left hand with his right, applying enough pressure to the cut to turn his knuckles white, but still a continuous stream of blood runs from under his fingers. It rolls quickly down the blue-white skin of his inner forearm, a thin trickle of red pooling in the crook of his elbow with surreal speed.

Finally James looks up. His eyes go wide. “Professor!”

Sirius glares at him. “It’s nothing, James, shut _up!_ ” He struggles to shake his sleeve down without letting go of his steadily bleeding hand. “It’s not deep, so just—”

“It's deep enough,  _y_ _ou_ shut up,” James snaps. “Professor Slughorn!”

Slughorn turns and peers over at them. Spotting the blood, he says, “Oh dear, can’t have that! Hang on, dear boy, I always keeps bandages…” He strolls over to his desk and picks through the top drawer. “For such spills as these, all very normal, naturally—”

“Sir, I think he ought to go to the hospital wing.”

Slughorn laughs, surprised. “Oh, I hardly think so, I’ve got all the necessary right here, so just sit tight for a moment Mr Black, I’ll—”

But he stops short. He slides the drawer closed and looks up at Sirius. “Mr…Mr _Black_ , yes, of course, how silly of me, yes indeed—”

Suddenly much less casual now, Slughorn crosses the room to Sirius, gets him to his feet, and wraps a rag around his hand. With a hand on Sirius’ shoulder he walks him briskly to the door. “Forgetfulness, dear boy, you’ll see when you’re my age— so silly of me to forget, the family resemblance is so striking— why, you and Miss Bellatrix could be siblings! Can’t imagine how it slipped my mind, about the, ah, well. Well, it’s the trouble with family, you see: some genetic gifts are more, ah, troublesome than others! Yes, send you straight to Poppy, she’ll set you right as rain.”

The whole classroom is staring by the time they reach the threshold. Sirius’ face is red and he glares fixedly at the floor.

“The rest of you, I want those Hair-Raising Potions finished when I get back!”

The door shuts behind them, and chatter resumes. Peter turns to James. “I forgot about that.”

“So does he, sometimes,” James says with a roll of his eyes. “Let’s finish this up, then we’ll go back to the hospital wing _again_. I swear, Madam Pomfrey sees the four of us more than anybody else in the whole school by now.”

“We do have a knack for getting injured,” Peter says. He takes the rat tails and gets back to chopping— carefully, carefully— and feels embarrassed on Sirius’ behalf. Sirius hates having to mention his family disease at all, they all know that; having it paraded in front of everybody must’ve been torture. 

Sure enough, when they stop by the hospital wing at break it’s to find Sirius sitting cross-legged on a bed, fully dressed on top of the covers. His arms are folded over his chest, complementing the murderous look on his face. The second he spots them, he barks, “What the hell, Potter?”

James drops down onto the bed next to him while Peter takes a nearby chair. “Was supposed to let you bleed out, was I?”

“I wasn’t going to— it’s not like it was _gushing blood_ , you twat, that’s not how haemophilia works!”

“I know how it works,” James says patiently, stretching his legs out on the bed. “You’d’ve kept bleeding all over the place for hours and hours, and then you’d get all dizzy, and then I’d have to drag you kicking and screaming all the way down here so Madam Pomfrey could give you the clotting stuff before you passed out.” Sirius _hmph_ s, but James goes on cheerfully as ever. “I reckon getting it out of the way quickly will save everybody a lot of time and bloodstains.”

Again Sirius _hmph_ s, and again James ignores him. A few moments of silence go by before Sirius snarls, “I’m not _fragile_.”

“’Course you’re not,” James says bracingly. “Not your fault your family’s all inbred mutants.”

“They— they call it the ‘royal disease’, don’t they?” Peter asks. He’s been curious for a long time, but there’s never been a good moment to ask. Sirius doesn’t bring it up if he can help it. “The Blacks aren’t related to Muggle royalty, are they?”

Sirius growls a little in the back of his throat, an irritable sound. “Yeah. They got it from us, actually.”

“I…what?”

He growls again. “It’s a long story and it’s boring and I hate it.”

“Well, now we’re curious,” James says. “Go on, bore us.”

After letting out a heavy sigh, Sirius talks to the far opposite wall in a bored voice. “There’s been magical blood in the French and British monarchies for basically forever and that’s where we came from, yeah. Wizards who left the Muggle royalty to start their own magical one, pretty much.” He rolls his eyes. “That’s why everybody in my stupid family acts like they rule the world, even though there’s hardly any of us left.” He sighs again before rattling off, “The family split sometime around the tenth century in France, the Muggle side became the Plantagenets and ruled Britain and such— they say Eleanor of Aquitaine was one of us, the sides crossed over a lot until the Statute of Secrecy— and the wizards became the Blacks.”

James gapes. “Your family’s been around since the tenth century?”

“Or eleventh, something like that,” he answers. Sirius apparently notices the shocked looks on both of their faces but misinterprets them entirely when he says, “What? You’d remember all of that too if your governess threatened you in French whenever you got details wrong.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say and James doesn’t seem to either. To fill the suddenly uncomfortable silence, Sirius goes on.

“Yeah, you cook up all sorts of funny mutations when you keep marrying your relatives. Muggle monarchies got the disease from us but they haven’t had it in ages, they’ve had the sense to branch out. We haven’t.” He shrugs. “We’re only getting more desperate as time goes on, seems like: my parents are second cousins. Now it’s down to Reg and me; if neither of us has kids, the direct line’s finished.”

Sirius looks down at his hand and begins picking absently at the bandage there. “I hope we don’t. It’s about time we died out. Sickly little beasts, all of us.”

The silence goes on so long that Peter opens his mouth, willing something to come out. “My granddad’s family all worked in shipyards,” is what he ends up saying. “That’s— that’s as far back as I know.”

Sirius shakes his head. “Merlin, you’re lucky.”

“But, but—” Peter stammers, “your family were kings and queens! That’s, er, something, isn’t it?”

“It’s something,” Sirius snaps, “a bloody awful something. Think it’s nice, having a thousand years of pureblood lunatics behind you? You heard Slughorn— I look like them, I talk like them, and my stupid _pure_ blood can’t even stay in its own stupid body.” He crosses his arms again, staring sulkily down at the bedspread. “You’re lucky.”

For as long as he’s known him, Peter has always been a bit jealous of Sirius. Well, maybe not jealous, exactly. He always took it for granted that Sirius must look down on him, or feel sorry for him, or…something.

He certainly never expected Sirius to feel jealous of _him_.

 

***

 

Sirius doesn’t get a lot of chances to hang out with Lily. James finally believes that he doesn’t fancy her (though why he even cares so bloody much is another matter), but he still acts funny about the whole thing. Sirius takes the opportunity on Saturday; Remus isn’t back from the hospital wing yet and Peter has gone off to the pitch with James to watch Quidditch practise.

Lily takes him into the out-of-order girl’s bathroom on the second floor. From the stall at the end they hear Moaning Myrtle wailing theatrically somewhere around the U-bend.

“She just wants attention, she’ll leave eventually,” Lily says as she tugs him toward the cracked and dusty mirror. She shakes her thick red hair free of its elastic band. “Here, I’ll show you that spell.”

The incantation works much better for her than it does for him; her hair goes all smooth and shiny, but his doesn’t do much of anything. She hums, scrunching her face thoughtfully.

“Your hair’s got a lot of curl to it, I expect that makes it harder. Hang on.”

She stands behind him, combs her fingers through his hair, takes individual locks and points her wand at them.They talk while she works.

“How was your holiday?”

“It was nice,” Lily answers. “Nice to see my family, of course.”

 _Of course_ , Sirius thinks. “And your sister?”

He sees her make a face in the mirror. “Tuney’s been…funny. But yeah, it’s nice to see her.” Her fingers land on a tangle; she picks it apart carefully. “Though I suppose seeing your family’s no fun at all.”

He grimaces. “Not at all, no. I did get to use the pencil you gave me, though.”

Sirius didn’t have the eye pencil on around his family after the first time, but he did wear it out a couple of times when he went to see Brianna. She did a sort of happy squeal and said he looked like ‘a little Bolan’, which made him smile. Malcolm was there the next time. He laughed so hard he doubled over, and Brianna smacked him.

“Did you?” Lily says, excited. “How’d it look?”

“Wobbly,” he recalls. “Not nearly as nice as when you do it.”

“I’ll help you, then. You’ll get better, it just takes practice.”

“Yeah.”

All of a sudden he feels distracted. The topic of the pencil's made Sirius think about what happened at Christmas, which makes him think about...other stuff. He hasn’t felt right since that morning. He’s felt completely terrible, actually. It seems like James’ affirmation about there being ‘poofs in the world’ should’ve set the matter at rest— confirm that Regulus really wasn’t pulling his leg, and Sirius could go on with his life and stop thinking about it. But he hasn’t stopped thinking about it. Not at all.

He feels rather sick about it. All the time.

“Lily,” he says, and his stomach is roiling worse than ever. “If I tell you something will you not tell anybody?”

She tilts her head, curious. “’Course.”

“You’ve got to swear,” he says. It’s funny how as soon as his stomach got wind of what he’s about to do it started protesting. Maybe it’s trying to kill him before he does anything stupid.

“I swear.”

“On your mother?”

“Yeah.”

Now his heart’s racing, like it’s trying to give itself a heart attack. He’ll feel better if he tells somebody. If only his body would stop trying to kill him for it. He looks around the dingy bathroom. There’s nobody here; even Moaning Myrtle’s gone elsewhere.

He’s a Gryffindor.

“I don’t think I like girls,” he says. “I mean, in the way blokes usually do.”

Lily hums, nods slowly. “You know, I had started to get a feeling you mightn’t.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Boys usually act really stupid when they talk to me.”

“Even if they don’t fancy you?”

“Yeah. If you’re a girl and you’re pretty, boys generally act stupid when they talk to you, they don’t necessarily have to fancy you.”

“And you’re really pretty.”

“Yeah, so they act even dumber. It’s how it works, unfortunately. Mum says it gets different when you get older but I dunno if I believe her.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah. You never did, though.”

He looks down into the chipped sink. “I think I like boys better.”

“That makes sense.”

“I didn’t know that was something that happened, but Reg told me about it and it…I dunno.” He shrugs, picks at the funny engraving on the side of the tap. “It made sense.”

“Yeah, it happens. Lots of people are like that.”

“What have you heard about it?” he asks. “Not…not good things?”

“Well, no, not at all good,” she says grudgingly. “But they say bad things about Muggle-borns and I don’t mind being one of those. I imagine it’s similar.”

Sirius looks up at her in the mirror. Her expression is even. “James doesn’t know,” he says. “Do you think he’d be revolted?”

“I don’t think he would. He’s your best friend, isn’t he?”

“But wouldn’t he be afraid I fancied him?”

“Do you?”

“Euugh, _gross_. No way.”

“Well, there you go.” She twists a long curl of his hair around her finger, runs her wand over it. “I should think he’d see it as more girls for him, then. You’re the best-looking boy in the year, it’s rather lucky for him, really.”

“I am?” he says, surprised.

She rolls her eyes. “Of course.”

“I don’t think I’m going to tell him, though. I…don’t want to.”

“You haven’t got to. But he’s your friend, he won’t be revolted. It’s not allowed of friends.”

James has never cared that Remus is a werewolf. He never even cared that Sirius is a stupid slimy Black.

Sirius nods. “Yeah. I reckon it isn’t.”

He knows Lily’s right. But still he finds himself thinking later that day that, now he’s gotten it off his chest, maybe it wouldn’t be so awful to never tell anybody else ever again.

 

***

 


	5. for your pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "See? This is why we can’t keep secrets.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should've given a disclaimer at the beginning that this fic doesn't follow sources outside the canon of the books (Pottermore, interviews, etcetera). You've probably figured that out already, but I felt like I should Officially say it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

  

***

 

It’s been around a month since Sirius said the bloody thing out loud. Now that he’s said it, he reckons, he won’t ever have to think about it again and he can just forget about it. Forget about it so thoroughly, Sirius figures, that it’ll stop being a problem at all. And it’ll go away forever. It makes quite a lot of sense in his head.

The problem is that it’s not working out like that. Not even a little bit.

“Hello? Anybody in there?”

Sirius startles, looks forward. Across the table, James rolls his eyes at him. “Pay attention.”

“Sorry. Tired.”

Sirius tries his hardest not to think about it. But then it does a number on him by being the only thing he can think about, sort of like how the moment somebody tells you not to picture a bright pink hippogriff the only thing you can see in your mind’s eye is a bright pink hippogriff. Or like how the moment he tells himself to stop surveying the boys sitting around the Great Hall for breakfast and mentally rating which ones are fittest, that’s all his brain seems to be able to do.

It only makes it worse that today is bloody Valentine’s Day.

“Wait till you lot see it,” James says. “Priscilla’s gonna be the luckiest lady in the school, you just wait.”

“I thought you fancied Marianne?” Peter asks.

James is shocked and affronted. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Yeah, don’t be stupid,” Remus says to Peter, wry. “Marianne was last week.”

“I’ve moved on, haven’t I? I’ve grown since then.”

“What’s your plan?”

James sets down his fork with great ceremony, steeples his fingers. “The plan has already been set in motion. Now we watch and wait.”

“You make me nervous.”

“Gents,” James says, “what do women love?”

Sirius, who is deeply unqualified to answer this question, looks at Remus and Peter. There’s a long stretch of pause. Then they all speak at once.

“Nice conversation,” says Peter.

“Being left alone,” says Remus.

“Robert Plant,” says Sirius.

James rolls his eyes so hard they’ll get stuck like that.

“You’re all hopeless. The ladies love _spectacle._ ”

Sirius groans, Peter drops his face straight onto the tabletop. Even Remus strains for politeness: “I don’t know about that, mate.”

“Sure they do! I mean, y’know, unless you’ve got somebody soulless and fun-hating, a real Lily Evans type, just, just awful and probably redheaded and, y’know, boring and nosy and terrible—”

“And?” Remus prompts. Sometimes James gets so caught up complaining about Lily that he forgets what he’s talking about.

“Yeah, anyway, the ladies like big displays, it’s right romantic, shows you’re serious.”

Sirius is about to suggest that James only thinks girls like big spectacles because James’ own favourite pastime is staging them, but he’s distracted by movement out of the corner of his eye. Three flutes soar out from under the table to hang gracefully in the air over Priscilla Vane’s head.

“Watch and learn,” James says.

One flute lets out a single earsplitting note like the squeal of a dying animal; another drops out of the air and lands with a splash in Vera Brocklehurst’s cornflakes. The third flute sets to smacking Priscilla around the head and neck.

The whole Great Hall turns to watch Priscilla shout and beat the flute back with her wand. Some people leap up to help, including Vera, who’s laughing too hard to do much.

“I take it back,” Remus says mildly. “You’re a regular Clark Gable.”

“They— they were supposed to _serenade_ her!” James cries. “I must’ve messed up the charm!”

“Oh, don’t say that. You aimed for spectacle, didn’t you?”

“Sod off, Lupin!” James hisses, scrambling to his feet. “I’LL SAVE YOU, PRISCILLA!”

He takes off. When he’s out of earshot, Sirius says, “Think we’ll tie him up next year.”

“Who knows how many girls he’ll have annoyed by then,” Peter says darkly. “Wish he’d just admit he fancies Lily. He’d act less like a lunatic if he were honest about it, wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know,” Remus says.

“Doesn’t know what?” Sirius says.

“That he fancies her.”

Sirius snorts. “Daft.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Think you know if you fancy somebody.”

“Maybe not. Denial’s quite a powerful thing.”

“He’s got the denying part down,” Peter says.

“Can say that again,” Remus mumbles, picking a piece of toast. “All the lady does is protest too much, methinks.”

Sirius has no idea what he’s talking about. “What?”

“Never mind. Pass the marmalade.”

Sirius watches James tackle the flute to the floor, probably bashing his head on the flagstones, and wonders which of them is having a worse Valentine’s Day. Sure, James publicly humiliated himself, but he does that all the time. At least James isn’t dealing with a mounting feeling that he’s a freak because he can’t relate to any of it and a terror that oh Merlin somebody’s going to find out, how long until somebody finds out?

It’ll only get worse, Sirius knows it. These days he’s caught in endless circles of feeling… _curious_ to being violently, sickeningly disgusted with himself to trying to cast it from his mind to letting his guard down to winding up at the beginning again, but at least it hasn’t been specific. When his eyes wander or he has weird intruding thoughts or, or _dreams_ (he isn’t thinking about it, he isn’t thinking about it) it’s never about anybody in particular. Not yet, anyway.

Maybe Sirius would fancy somebody by now if there were more boys in his year. The four of them are the only second year boys Gryffindor’s got, the other ones are all girls— there’s so many of them that they live in two different rooms in the dormitories. James was always excited by the possibilities that their sheer numbers offered but Sirius never was, which, looking back, Sirius probably should’ve realised was odd.

So then, he wonders, what boys are there even in his life to fancy? Obviously his closest friends are out of the question. Liking James would be like being attracted to Regulus, and while he loves Peter dearly he’s the most awkward person alive.

Most of the other people they hang around are either girls or the Gryffindor boys in the year ahead of them. Like Dirk Cresswell and his best friend Davey Gudgeon, who are both sitting nearby.

Dirk’s alright-looking, Sirius figures, glancing at him out of his periphery. He has brown eyes, which Sirius finds he likes. Still, though, he hasn’t been able to forget about that time last year when he realised that Dirk always smells sort of like oatmeal. Not unpleasant, exactly, but strange enough. His eyes land on Davey, who is, now that he thinks about it, pretty fit. But then a moment later he remembers the time in the common room that Davey asked if you could hurt your eyes by looking at a photograph of the sun for too long, and Sirius quickly loses interest.

No one in his immediate group strikes him as fancy-able and it’s a very conflicting situation. Should he be embarrassed? They’re certainly old enough now for crushes to be a factor in their lives— Remus’ thirteenth birthday is tomorrow, and Peter’s been a teenager since October. That’s old enough, surely? Has Sirius not gotten there yet because he’s the youngest? Whenever James has teased him about it he’s insisted that there’s no real difference between March and June and that James should shut up, but is Sirius actually behind everybody else? He already got his first growth spurt before the rest of them, so shouldn’t that mean he isn’t stunted, or whatever?

Sirius shakes himself. No, he’s grateful. His number one wish is to forget about this whole thing and how much it makes him feel sick and messed up and paranoid, and that’d be hard to do if he actually liked a specific boy in that kind of way.

He thanks his lucky stars, and dreads the day that his luck runs out.

 

***

 

Remus lies awake for a long time that night. Long enough that it seems the natural thing to do is to stay awake for a little while longer in bed looking at his watch, tracking the minutes ticking by until midnight.

He knows, logically, that he won’t feel any different as a thirteen year old than he does at twelve. He knows that birthdays don’t suddenly make you older. It’s a horrible truth that everybody learns at some point or another, and Remus knows it: growing up sneaks up on you.

It’s silly to stay up for nothing. They’ve got lessons tomorrow.

Still, though, he lies in the dark, squinting at his watch in the light of the waxing moon, listening to the soft sounds of the dormitory. At 11:43, he hears the covers on Peter’s bed shift as Tesla stirs, hears her gentle purring. At 11:47, he hears a faint, distant splash from outside which he assumes to be the giant squid, up to some nighttime revelry. Remus isn’t sure what squid revelry is like, but he wishes her the best. At 11:55 a draught makes a floorboard creak, and at 11:56—

“No, no I didn’t tell…I swear…”

Remus smiles to himself. It’s been a while since he’s been awake for Sirius’ sleeptalking, a couple of months at least. Has Sirius been talking in his sleep less— he keeps insisting he’s going to grow out of it any day now— or has Remus just been better able to sleep lately? He isn’t sure. Either way, it seems to say something about how they’re maturing. But maybe he’s just got birthdays on his mind.

“I wouldn’t tell, it wasn’t me, I wouldn’t—no, no no, stop…please! It’s burning, it’s burning—”

Remus sits up. Most of the time Sirius’ sleeptalking is nothing, just words tumbling out of the tangle of his subconscious. But he still gets nights when it’s worse.

“I wouldn’t, I’d never hurt them, it wasn’t me…Stop, please…stop!”

Sirius only needs one good nudge before his eyes shoot open. He looks up at Remus and gives himself a shake. He scoots over in bed, murmuring, “Thanks.”

“’Course.” Remus plops down the pillow from his bed and climbs in next to Sirius. He pulls the hangings closed around them, shutting out the moonlight, and lies down, staring up into blackness. Exhaling, he wills himself to be sleepy. “So,” he whispers, “what’s your pirate ship look like tonight?”

Sirius hums. “Purple, I think.”

“Yours is always purple.”

“I like purple.”

“I’ve never, ever seen a purple boat.”

“Seen many boats, I suppose?”

“Can’t say so.”

“There you are, then.”

A long warm silence passes, and he thinks Sirius might’ve fallen asleep. But then he asks, “What about yours? Has it got the mermaid on the front or the dragon?”

Remus sighs. “Neither. I’m not feeling sleepy at all, and I can’t even focus on boats to help.”

“Me neither, to be honest.” He hears Sirius roll over, facing him in the darkness. “I fell asleep fine before, but now I’m awake.”

“I expect there’s nothing like a nightmare to wake you up.”

“Suppose so.”

“What were you dreaming about, anyway?”

“You know I never remember.”

“You said something about burning.”

“Yeah…” A thoughtful silence. “Now you mention it, I do remember fire. There was a house on fire, and another with a great big hole in the side.”

“Like in the news, do you reckon?”

“What?”

“The people lighting Muggles’ houses on fire.”

“Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten.”

“It was a while ago.” It’s been months since Remus saw anything about the burning Muggle houses. For some reason, though, it’s stuck with him.

They lie quietly for a bit longer, with the unspoken understanding that neither of them are trying to go to sleep now. It’s interesting how the simple fact of quiet can seem different from moment to moment, Remus thinks. It’s a certain type of quiet when they’re both thinking fixedly about their pirate ships so they can sleep and another kind altogether when they’re content to lie sleepless for a while.

“What about you?” asks Sirius eventually. “Why can’t you sleep? Not too moony, I hope.”

“No, no.” The full in a few days probably isn’t helping, but, “I was counting down to my birthday,” he admits, “and I suppose it woke me up somehow.”

“I can’t believe I forgot. Your birthday’s tomorrow and I’m keeping you up.”

“You aren’t, I was up anyway. And today, you mean.”

“Huh?”

“It’s not tomorrow, it’s today. Or at least I assume it is, by now. It was 11:56 when I checked last.”

“Oh. Happy birthday, probably.”

“Thanks.”

“Feel any different, as a teenager?” Sirius says it like a joke, but Remus knows him well enough to hear just a little bit of hope in his voice.

“Nope. But,” he says, sitting up and reaching for the bedside cabinet. His fingers shuffle blindly in the dark for a bit before he feels them close over Sirius’ watch. “Maybe I’m not thirteen yet.” He pulls his hand in and looks at the watch. “12:02. Well.”

“Suppose you’re very mature and grown up now. Whatever will you do now you’ve outgrown our lot?”

Remus laughs quietly, replacing the watch and readjusting the hangings. “I’ve always been older than you, so’s Peter.” He lies back down and jokes, “James is only a month away from becoming extremely mature and grown up, and then you’ll be the odd one out.”

“It hardly matters anyway, you’ve always been forty. All this time you’ve been too mature for any of us.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“You wouldn’t, you’re convinced you’re perfectly normal. But trust me.” He feels Sirius tap him on the nose with one finger. “You’re forty.”

Remus smiles, small and to himself. “You really should show your elders some respect.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They’re quiet for even longer now. Remus is just beginning to think that he might fall asleep soon when Sirius says, “What will you do, though?”

He rolls over onto his side, groggy, and faces Sirius. They’re very close and Remus’ eyes have adjusted, so now he see Sirius’ face in the darkness, painted in blurry blacks and greys. “Do when?”

“When we outgrow this place. James and I have talked about it before. He never shuts up about how he’ll play Quidditch for England as soon as he graduates and be a big star, but I’ve no idea what you want to do at all.”

“Whatever I can, I expect.”

Up close, he can see Sirius’ dark eyebrows scrunch together in the middle. “What’s that mean?”

“Well…you know.” He doesn’t un-scrunch his face, though, so Remus has to go on. “I won’t have a whole lot of options. I expect I’ll be grateful to work for whoever takes me.”

Sirius’ face goes from confused to angry, the ends of his expressive mouth twisting. He shifts his weight under the covers, a frenetic little movement, and says, “That’s rot.”

“I guess so. It’s how it is, though, so I see no point in troubling myself over it.”

“What did you _want_ to do, though? When you were a kid?”

“I don’t know.”

“There must’ve been something.”

“There wasn’t.”

“Yes there was, there’s always something.”

Remus doesn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he says, “There was something. I don’t want to say, though.”

“Come on. You can’t keep secrets, friends aren't allowed to.”

“None?”

“No, that’s the whole point of having friends, is that no one keeps secrets.”

“That can’t be the _whole_ point.”

“Okay, I suppose it isn’t. You still can’t, though.”

Now Remus rolls his eyes. “You mean you’ve never had a secret from the three of us? None at all?”

“No!” Sirius says. Actually, it’s more like a yelp. James’ snores hitch and Sirius freezes. A moment later they go back to normal, and Sirius relaxes.

“Er. Sorry if I—”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t mean to, to offend, or—”

“You _didn’t_ , Remus, leave it.” He pushes his hair out of his face, adjusts his head on the pillow. “Now go on and tell me what you wanted to do as a kid.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Up until this year James wanted to be a professional dragon trainer. Trust me, it’s not stupid.”

“Fine. If you must know, I use to like the idea of being an Unspeakable.”

“What’s that?”

“Somebody who works in the Department of Mysteries, at the Ministry of Magic,” explains Remus. “They study all the deepest parts of magic, the building blocks at the center of it all. They learn things that nobody else has ever known.”

“Wow,” says Sirius. “When you say ‘at the center of it all’…what do they study, exactly?”

“Nobody knows. They can’t even talk about it, it’s against the law for them to tell anyone anything.”

“That’s…wow,” says Sirius, sounding impressed. Then he says, “You should do it anyway.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

“You could try, anyway.”

“I couldn’t, I looked it up years ago. The Ministry doesn’t hire people like me.”

“Not at all?”

“Never.”

“But…but you’re…that’s so—!” Sirius looks fully awake now, and he isn’t doing a great job of keeping his voice down. Remus shushes him, and he goes back to a whisper. “You’re _brilliant_. I mean, you’re a bloody genius.”

“I’m really not,” says Remus, but something squirms happily in his stomach anyway. “You and James are the geniuses, everybody knows that.”

“They’re wrong, though,” Sirius says, insistent. “They don’t know anything, and neither do the Ministry people. You’re incredible, and nobody knows anything at all about anything.”

Sometimes Sirius is like this with him; he’ll get this earnestness that’s almost overwhelming. Remus never knows how to respond to it. He studies the edge of the coverlet and says, “Thanks.”

“Don’t know what’s so stupid about that. See? This is why we can’t keep secrets.”

Remus laughs lightly. “I suppose you’re going to say that that’s the whole point of friendship again? You do love making grandiose generalizations like that.”

“Maybe it isn’t the entire point, but it’s part of it.”

“I think,” Remus says, “the point of friends isn’t that you don’t have any secrets at all, but that you keep them for each other.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. You win.”

Remus smiles to himself.

A while passes. And as he begins to drift off, Remus hears himself mumble, “I think the reason ships can’t be purple is because the sea would wash the paint off so quickly. They’re just the colour of wood.”

“I don’t mean the boat part of it,” says Sirius. His voice is breathy, like he’s already half-asleep. “I mean the sails.”

“That’s…something else. When you say a purple boat, you picture a boat with a purple hull. A purple boat and a boat with purple sails are two very different boats.”

He hears Sirius groan sleepily, then take in a long breath. He lets it all out on, “First of all, it’s a ship not a boat if it’s big enough, and second of all I never said which part was purple, it can have a purple hull or purple sails, or both or neither if I say, because it’s whatever I say, it’s my boat.”

“Ship,” Remus corrects.

Sirius says, “Shut up,” and a moment later he’s snoring.

 

***

 

The score in their ongoing card game is three hundred and twelve to two hundred and twenty-eight when James sets Remus on fire.

Remus puts it out by running down the shore and dunking his arm into the lake, but the sleeve of his jumper still ends up singed away to nothing. From under the beech tree James says, “Better go up to the castle and change, then.”

“Nah, it’s not that cold.”

“Maybe not, but you’ve got some teeth marks going on.”

Remus glances at his bare forearm. “Ah, so I do,” he says pleasantly. “Alright, I’ll be back.”

Once he’s out of earshot, James reveals his sneaky plan with pride.

“See, I exploded that card on him on purpose.”

“Why?” Sirius asks.

“I’ve made a breakthrough. In the _thing._ Couldn’t have him underfoot.”

“So you set him on fire?” says Sirius.

“Yes, because I’m a good friend,” says James.

“What,” says Peter.

“You were right,” he tells Sirius. “That thing you said, months ago. The recipe at the beginning isn’t the ‘initial bodily transformative draught ritual’ at all, it _is_ something entirely different. I found the real potion and it’s tricky as they come, but definitely doable.”

“Found it?” asks Peter. “When’d you find it?”

“Last night.”

“Where?”

“Restricted Section, where d’you think?”

“You searched the whole Restricted Section last night?”

“I’ve been at it off and on.”

Sirius looks a bit outraged. “Without us?”

“Less conspicuous with only one of me. What if that one had woken up again, eh?”

“Easy, light him on fire.”

He gives Sirius a shove that sends him toppling backwards into the grass. Then he digs in his bag and pulls out the book, flips to the dogeared page. “Look at the ingredients.”

“Asp fang, Erumpent horn, boomslang skin…” Peter reads. “I haven’t seen this stuff in the student cupboard.”

“That’s cause they aren’t in there,” James says. “We’ll get them from Slughorn’s private stores.”

“How’ll we do that?”

“Break in, of course.”

“Of course,” Sirius says.

 

***

 

The plan is foolproof. James remembers that time Slughorn mentioned routinely going to the Three Broomsticks for lunch on Fridays, and that next Friday is only a couple of days after the full moon; for an hour or two, neither Slughorn nor Remus will be around. Sirius thought they’d have a problem getting into the locked office— _Alohomora_ wouldn’t work, surely— but Peter masterminds that part.

“My cousin showed me,” he says, holding up a perfectly normal bobby pin. He jabs it into the keyhole and jiggles it around for a bit, tongue between his teeth in concentration, until there’s a _click._ The door swings open.

“Wicked!” James says. He looks up and down the corridor. Deserted. “Alright, Black, you keep watch.”

“Why me?”

But James has already tugged Peter into the office, shutting the door behind them. _Guess I’m keeping watch_ , Sirius thinks.

There’s nothing much to watch. It’s the first sunny day in months, March wavering indecisively into April, and everybody’s out on the grounds.

“What’re you doing?”

Everybody except Remus.

Sirius turns. “Why aren’t you in the hospital wing?”

“I was gone two days,” Remus says, eyebrows raised.

“Right.”

“You’re up to something.”

It’s not a question, and Remus won’t believe him if he denies it. “Yeah. I’m keeping watch.”

Remus gives him a look. _And?_

“We are breaking into Slughorn’s office.” Sirius speaks slowly, trying to give himself more time to think. “We’re breaking in. Into…Slughorn’s office. His potion stores, specifically. Is what we’re breaking into. For…” Inspiration hits. “For the Super Ball prank.”

“The Super Ball prank? What on earth do you need potion ingredients for?”

“For, er, for. For a Bouncing Solution.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s very advanced. N.E.W.T. level. We didn’t tell you because you’re rubbish at potions.”

“Suppose that’s fair,” Remus says. “How many Super Balls have you two got now?”

“Dunno, haven’t been keeping count. My trunk’s full of them; I’ve had to move my clothes and stuff to the wardrobe.”

“Almost as if that’s where they’re supposed to be.”

“What, and have to pack them all up again for holidays? Waste of time, if you ask me.”

“I know you’re theoretically the heir to a line of pseudo-royalty, but I’m pretty sure you were born in a barn.”

“Ha ha.”

From inside Slughorn’s office Sirius hears James’ whoop of victory. The doorknob jiggles and the door begins to swing open at the same instant that somebody turns the corner right ahead. Sirius kicks the door shut and slams himself back against it, and he’s just posed himself in a would-be casual lean when the intruder spots them. It’s Frank Longbottom— Hufflepuff Quidditch captain and, as a matter of fact, Head Boy. Great. Far out.

“Hey Frank,” Sirius says casually. Very casually. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much, thanks,” he replies. He’s always polite like that. “Are you two waiting for Professor Slughorn, too?”

“Er,” Sirius says.

Remus cuts in smoothly. “We are, yes. Do you know what time he’s supposed to be back?”

“Any minute now. Or so he said.”

“You don’t say.” Remus’ voice is pitched a little higher than usual.

“Yep. Suppose I’ll wait with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” Sirius says. Behind his back he feels James give the door a little shove; Sirius smacks his shoulder against it harder.

Frank looks at him with concern. “Alright there?”

“Yeah, just, er—” The door pushes out again, Sirius slams it back. “Door’s broken.”

“So, how’s Alice?” Remus says, strolling casually around to inspect a painting on the wall of some suspicious-looking monks. “Does post-graduation life suit her?”

Sirius wonders what he’s playing at until he sees Frank turn to face Remus— turn, that is, away from Slughorn’s door. Over Frank’s shoulder Remus shoots him the quickest flash of a _What are you waiting for_ look.

“She’s doing wonderfully, thanks for asking. Of course I do miss her, haven’t seen her since Christmas, but we write all the time.”

Hoping to Merlin that the hinges won’t creak, Sirius cracks the door, holds a finger to his lips, and gestures Peter and James out into the corridor. They shuffle around each other awkwardly, stepping lightly, fearing the squeak of a trainer sole. Meanwhile, Remus chats.

“But wasn’t she just here?”

“Sorry?”

“Alice, I saw her here the other day.”

“Oh, er— oh, you saw? Well, er.”

James fumbles the potions ingredients in his arms and drops a pouch of asp fangs. Right as it hits the stone floor, Remus coughs noisily.

“Pardon me. Go on.”

Sirius watches Peter look up and down the corridor, the _long_ corridor, and frantically mouth _What now?_ Sirius runs the probability in his head. Can those two reach the corner before Frank turns around, without him hearing their footsteps?

Frank, though, doesn’t look like he’d notice much right now. He sounds suddenly uncomfortable.

“Oh, yeah, erm, that was— mind not mentioning that to anybody? It’s a bit of a— a— well, the truth is, Alice is in a. Well. A sort of society.”

“Oh?”

Spotting a cracked classroom door halfway down the corridor, Sirius points. _There_ , he mouths. Peter and James tiptoe as fast as humanly possible while Frank, distinctly nervous now, rambles.

“Yeah, I’ll be in once I’ve graduated this spring, it’s not available to students, you see. Some of the teachers here are— are involved, somewhat, so. That’s. That’s why she was here, but it’s best if it isn’t, er—”

“No, of course, I understand. I’d only assumed she was here visiting you.”

“Oh! Yeah. That…would make sense. Suppose I should’ve said that.” Frank laughs nervously.

“What sort of things do you do in this society?”

“Just, ah, small things,” Frank says.

James and Peter have reached the door. James goes to open it and the knob clicks. Remus coughs again.

“Mostly, you know, letter-writing, things like that. It’s, well, it’s a political society, you could call it. There are meetings, sometimes.”

“I see,” Remus says. “Well, that sounds very interesting! Good for you two.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll, ah…I’ll just be going, then…”

The door is just just creeping shut to cover James and Peter when Frank turns around and walks off down the corridor. He turns the corner and out of sight.

“Wasn’t he going to wait for Slughorn?” Sirius says. Remus shrugs.

The classroom door swings open. “Remus!" James calls. "Thought you were still in hospital.”

“No, she let me out hours ago.”

“I told him about the plan.” Sirius looks James dead in the eyes and wills him not to say anything stupid. “The plan about the Bouncing Solution.”

“The…yeah, for the Super Ball prank,” James says, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, we needed more ingredients for it. It’s a big-time prank, this one.”

Remus’ eyes drop to the variety of boxes and bags and jars in James’ and Peters’ arms. “A Bouncing Solution needs boomslang skin? I thought that was only for Transfiguring potions.”

“Just goes to show how pants you are at potions,” Peter says bracingly.

“We'll go drop off our contraband," James says. "See you lot later.”

He scarpers, taking Peter with him.

Remus squints. “They're being odd.”

“They're always odd. You know who was odd,” Sirius says, desperate to change the subject. “Frank. What was that about?”

“What?”

“That ‘society’ sounds dodgy to me.”

“I don’t know. I’d imagine a few of the professors around here have political ties, I’m not surprised people would get involved with things like that.”

“Things like what, though? He seemed awfully nervous about a club that just writes letters.”

“Reckon it’s anonymous, then.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway.” There’s the ghost of a smirk on Remus’ face, quirking that ever-polite smile of his into something mischievous. It’s a familiar look. “You lot are lucky to have me. Breaking into a teacher’s office? That’s a month’s detention at least.”

Sirius is terribly fond of that look. “Whatever would we do without you?”

One more flash of the smirk, and Remus turns to leave. “Get caught,” he says.

 

***

 

They don’t get a chance to shake Remus until later that afternoon, during Herbology. They’re told to work in threes to prune potted Shrivelfigs. James grabs Sirius and Peter on either side of him, looks and Remus, and says, “Bad luck, mate.” He points him over to Rodney Stebbins and Liu Madley on the other side— _way_ on the other side— of this area of the greenhouse, then sets to business.

“Alright lads.” He takes the crumpled up ingredient list from his pocket. “We’ve got everything we need. Just missing the mandrake stems, but that’ll be a piece of cake— Sprout only keeps them through that door over there, we’ll break in easy. I’d say we could have this bad boy cooked up within the next couple of weeks if we give it our best Gryffindor try.”

Sirius sets down his shears and studies the sheet. “I don’t think so, mate.”

“C’mon, it’ll be easy, why not?”

“Because this says mandrake _seedling_ stems. But we know how old the mandrakes Sprout’s got are now, don’t we? We repotted them months ago, they were seedlings then.”

James gapes for a moment. “Oh, come on. That was, what, September? So that’s only—”

“Seven months?” Peter says, and it sounds like he agrees with Sirius, damn him. “Seven and a half?”

“I’m sure it won’t make a difference.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “That kind of attitude’s why you’re no good at Potions.”

“A stem’s a stem, it’ll be fine.”

“Do you really want to approach this _complicated and deadly spell_ with the spirit of ‘a stem’s a stem’?”

“What do you suggest we do? Slughorn didn’t have any in his cupboard, we looked.”

Sirius runs a hand through his hair, huffs a sigh. “I don’t see any other option but to wait until she gets new ones in next fall.”

“Next— next fall?!” James catches himself mid-shout; Hazel Flume and Wendy Burbage turn around to look at him. He goes back to whispering. “Are you mad? How many full moons will he have done by then?”

“We haven’t got a choice!”

James feels properly angry now. He knows Sirius is right, but that just makes it worse, somehow. “I can’t believe you’re so willing to wait half a bloody year to get going on this!” he hisses. “I feel like I’m the only one here who cares about Remus at all!”

He knows immediately that he’s gone too far. The guilt that plummets into his gut is enough to tell him that, but Sirius pulling his wand on him so fast he topples over their Shrivelfig bush with a crash certainly helps.

“Boys!” comes Professor Sprout’s voice. When James looks up he sees everybody staring at them. Great. “What’s the ruckus over there?”

Sirius lowers his wand from where it’s pointed between James’ eyes and mumbles, “Nothing, Professor.”

Normal noise levels rise up in the greenhouse again. “I’m sorry,” James whispers, and he really means it. “That was a rotten thing to say, I didn’t mean it.”

Sirius sets their plant right-side-up, then chops off an entire Shrivelfig with a decisive _snip_. “Mmph.”

“You’re right, we’ve got no other choice. We’ve got to wait.”

Sirius makes another vague sound.

“Seems we’re on track, then,” Peter says brightly.

“Yep,” James agrees. He picks up his own shears. “All we’ve got to keep us busy in the meantime is the Super Ball prank. Black, have you got any more room in your trunk? Mine’s all full of the things.”

 

***

 

By May, Sirius and James have between the two of them gotten thirty-nine detentions. This is a great improvement on last year’s measly twenty-one; the teachers were soft on them first year. Sirius has high hopes for next year’s number.

Sometimes the detentions were for general tomfoolery type of stuff. There was that time James nicked a Quaffle and they played keep-away with Dirk Cresswell, Davey Gudgeon, and Casey Jordan out on the grounds; it started raining, so of course they moved the game into the Entrance Hall. It’s hardly their fault that the Hufflepuff hourglass ended up broken, but all five of them got detention for it regardless. He and James only got points taken that time they wrestled in the library and broke a table, but it was a close one.

Their proudest detentions, though, are for their jinx experiments. They’re getting much better at finding good ones. That prat Tiberius McLaggen sneezed feathers all day after he docked Sirius and James points for running in the corridor. The Slytherins get the best ones: they gave Avery a squeaky helium voice that didn’t go away for forty-eight hours, and successfully bewitched a suit of armour to follow around that git Mulciber and clank annoyingly.

They save the clever stuff for your run-of-the-mill gits and prefects. Their regular interactions with Snivellus, on the other hand, are a lot more…straightforward.

James spots him first, like always: walking down the crowded corridor, nose stuck in some dusty old Dark Arts tome. James sticks out his leg and leaves Sirius to give the final shove. Scattered laughter muffles the sound of Snape hitting the floor, not quite covering the distinct _crack_ sound.

“Walk there, Snivelly?” James says. Traffic slows around them as people stop to watch the show. Snape scrambles unsteadily to his feet with one hand clamped over his bleeding nose, leaving a tiny splash of red on the stone floor.

“Huh,” Sirius says. He gestures to his own face. “You’ve got a little…”

More scattered laughter, then somebody emerges from the crowd. Lily isn’t laughing. Her face red, she grabs Snape, who’s reaching for his wand, by the arm and tugs.

“Ignore them,” she says. “Come on, hospital wing…”

And that would’ve been a normal Wednesday if Snape hadn’t opened his ugly mouth to tattle to Madam Pomfrey about it. Sirius gets his least-favourite type of detention for that one: cleaning without magic. Filch gives him a toothbrush and a bottle of something that smells like pure rubbing alcohol and aims him toward the paving stones in the courtyard.

That’d have been bad enough by itself. But Lily Evans is here.

“How’d you get detention?” Sirius asks her. They’ve been scrubbing in silence for a while. His back hurts. “The teachers all love you.”

It’s a bit before she answers. “I hexed Mulciber.”

“Right on! What’d you use? James and I tried this really excellent one on him, we—”

Eyes fixed on her toothbrush, she cuts him off. “I don’t want to hear what hexes you and James Potter use on people.”

“Alright, fine. Geez.”

They scrub for a while longer.

“So, I got a new single in the mail— somebody did a Velvet Underground song, I dunno, Malcolm reckoned I’ll like it. There’s not gonna be anybody in our dormitory tomorrow afternoon, if you—”

“I got in a big fight with Severus,” she says.

“What?”

“You two broke his nose.” She tosses down her toothbrush and stares at him, green eyes narrowed. “You don’t feel bad about that at all?”

He shrugs. “Madam Pomfrey can fix that stuff in half a second, what’s the big deal?”

He isn’t sure how to react when she slumps in on herself and covers her face with her hands.

“Are you alright?”

“Why’s this all got to be so hard,” Lily says, muffled. She puts her hands down and looks at him again. “He’s my best friend in the world, you understand? He’s my oldest, closest friend out of anybody else. And you’re _horrible_ to him. You’re so, so horrible. You’re proud of it.”

“Well—I—” Sirius stammers. He feels his face heating up. “He’s horrible too! All that Dark Arts stuff, the slimy little creep! You know who his friends are, how they talk about—”

“He isn’t his friends, alright?” she argues. “I know they’re awful. D’you think I hexed Mulciber just for the fun of it? He was picking on a first year half his size. He called her a Mudblood, so I hexed him.”

“He isn’t any different, you must know that? You think he doesn’t call people that word? He says all the same stuff when you aren’t around!”

She drops her eyes to glare at the paving stones, red-faced.

 _Oh,_ Sirius thinks. _She does know._

“So,” she says, sarcasm thick in the syllable, “are you going to try to tell me now that you and Potter only torture him out of a sense of justice?”

“Nah, it’s ’cause he’s a git and we hate him, but can you really say he doesn’t deserve it?”

“Why are you any better?” she snaps. Her face is well on its way to matching her hair. “You two curse people left and right just because you feel like it, why are you any better than he is?”

“Because I don’t think I’m better than you just because I’ve got magic parents!” Sirius explodes. “Snape does!”

He went too far, he knows it.

“You’re my friend and you do awful things,” Lily says to the ground. “He’s my very best friend and he _believes_ awful things. I…I dunno where that leaves me.”

Sirius feels guilty. He isn’t sure specifically what for. Truth be told, it isn’t a feeling he’s used to having.

“Why are you friends with him? Do you feel sorry for him?”

“No!” She looks up to glare at him. “How could you say that?”

A new question occurs to Sirius. It’s one he hasn’t thought to wonder before, but now that he thinks about it, it’s a glaringly obvious one.

“Why are you friends with me? Do…you don’t feel sorry for _me?_ ”

Lily answers a beat too slowly.

“What? No! Don’t be—”

Anger’s rising up in him. “You do, you do feel sorry for me! Poor gay Sirius feels like a dirty freak, wears makeup at home and gets his eyes washed out with soap—”

“They washed your eyes out with soap?” There’s undisguised horror on her face.

“I’ve got loads of friends, I don’t need anybody thinking they’ve got to…got to…”

But even as he says it he knows that he hasn’t got another friendship quite like the one he’s got with Lily. Even with James, who finishes his sentences and knows his thoughts and is his brother in every way that matters, there’s stuff he can’t talk about, perspectives he can’t get. Lily just has a different way of looking at things than other people, something about her that makes you want to share parts of yourself with her that you don’t give anybody else.

Maybe that’s how she found herself with a couple of friends who are each other’s worst enemies: you can’t _not_ be friends with Lily.

“I spend time with you because we’ve got common interests,” Lily says. “And it’s cool getting to tell you about Muggle stuff and it’s cool that you actually care when I talk about my sister. And it’s nice having a boy’s perspective on things who doesn’t act stupid or try to flirt and, and isn’t Sev, and…I don’t know, I just like hanging round with you, alright? But it’s making my best friend miserable, so…I don’t know.”

Sirius looks down at the neglected paving stones. “James is sort of a dick about it too.”

She snorts.

“We could…We could just. Not tell anybody.”

“Huh?”

“You know, just…hang out when we feel like it but not make it anyone else’s business. Whatever.”

She shrugs. “I guess.”

“It isn’t anybody else’s business. All the gossips in this school. Who cares?”

Without looking at him she picks up her toothbrush and goes back to scrubbing.

Sirius follows suit. Beginning to form in his head is a vague understanding that will grow solid edges as he gets older, get sharper and more specific but for now is formless and wordless in the way of being twelve-almost-thirteen: about what two people can have between them, and how it’s always, always complicated.

 

***

 

Peter slides in next to Remus at dinner one evening in June with a cry of, “Look!”

James pauses the vigorous sword fight he and Sirius are having with cutlery and looks at the small rubber ball, eye-watering green, in Peter’s hand. He beams. “Hey, way to go!”

"Great job, mate!" Sirius says.

“Only took me, what, six months?” Peter jokes. He tosses the ball up into the air with the clear intention of catching it again. It doesn’t work out that way: he misses the catch and the tiny ball hops its way down the Gryffindor table, terrorizing everyone in its path. Remus ducks. The ball lands in a vat of stew several metres away.

Peter’s face falls. “I…don’t think I’m getting that back.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that,” Sirius says, waving a hand. “We’ve got loads, haven’t we?”

“Sure have! Can hardly find places to put ’em,” James reports.

Sirius grins. “I reckon it’s about time we put the Great Super Ball Prank into action. Tomorrow, I think.”

“I suppose I still don’t get to know what it is?” Remus asks.

“Nah, it’s about time we told you,” Sirius says. “It’s a four-man job.”

“I think I’ve about guessed it.”

“Oh have you, smart guy?”

“It may surprise you to know that it’s not that complex of a idea.”

“Whatever,” James cuts in. “Here’s the plan…”

 

***

 

The thing is, Sirius is doing _fine_.

He’s doing way better with the Bright Pink Hippogriff Situation, and barely thinks about the whole thing at all anymore. Through force of will he forgets about it, and gets himself to believe that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him and that he’s just like all the other boys. It’s amazing what stubbornly ignoring his problems can do.

He’s had plenty to distract him from the Bright Pink Hippogriff Situation since it first reared its head in December. The Animagus project is on pause now, which is unfortunate, but they keep busy round here. They’ve been staging the Great Super Ball Prank for months now, and Sirius has been bursting with excitement about it all the while. It’s an ingenious prank— elegant in its simplicity, deeply impressive in how it doesn’t use any magic at all. One of their finest yet.

So Sirius finds it especially horrible when it’s on the day of the Great Super Ball Prank, a sacred day, that he goes and ruins absolutely everything.

There’s only a few minutes left of Transfiguration, the last class before lunch, and all their work and planning is about to come to fruition. 

“So first we’ve got to get all the way up to Gryffindor tower,” James whispers. He’s cradling two white rabbits that at the beginning of the lesson were slippers. “And that’ll take a bit even if we run.”

“Then we’ll get the Super Balls—” says Remus, with some difficulty. He’s still putting in a real effort toward transfiguring his right slipper, while the rabbit that was the left one hisses at him. Animals never like Remus. “And the baskets—”

“Pettigrew, you got the baskets, right?”

“Nicked them last night,” whispers Peter. Both of his slippers are still slippers, but he looks proud of himself nonetheless.

“I didn’t know rabbits even _could_ hiss,” says Sirius.

“How about that,” mumbles Remus, dodging a bite to the arm.

“You must be antagonising them somehow.”

“Easy for you to say, both of yours hopped off ages ago.”

Sirius leans his chair back on two legs, humming thoughtfully. “I really should try to find those, shouldn’t I?”

“It’s not my fault they’re antagonised by my existence.”

“I bet it’s not even the—” Sirius breaks off to theatrically mouth the word _‘Werewolf’_ , “thing, I bet they just think you’re ugly.”

“Stop flirting, you two,” James jokes, “we’ve got to focus.”

A great jolt goes through Sirius and he feels the two legs of his chair slip from underneath him. He lets out a yelp as the room whirls sideways.

There’s a great _clunk_ that echoes through the room, his head aches, and above him he sees Professor McGonagall whip around. “Are you four _quite_ finished?” she says.

Scattered laughter mixes with the _clunk_ , still echoing faintly from the high ceiling. Dazed, Sirius says, “You know, the acoustics in here really are something.”

Remus snorts.

When the bell rings the four of them are the first out the door, fighting their way to the front of the exodus like the room’s on fire. But while the rest of the school wanders down to the Great Hall for lunch, their groups bolts up to Gryffindor Tower, taking the stairs two at a time. By the time they get to their dormitory they’re all panting and clutching stitches in their sides. Peter produces four of the most enormous wicker baskets Sirius has ever seen, swiped from behind the greenhouses, and they leap to action.

“Alright lads,” says James, in the voice he always uses when he’s taking the lead, like he’s rallying soldiers, “now we’ve just got to track down every last Super Ball in the place and get them into these—”

“And then cart them all the way down to the ground floor,” Sirius interjects as he rifles through his bag, pulling out handful after handful of bright green rubber balls. "Somehow."

“We’re not _carrying_ them, stupid, that’s what we’ve got wands for.”

“Don’t call me stupid.”

“Call you stupid if you’re being stupid, stupid.”

Sirius lobs a Super Ball at James’ head, makes Tesla snarl and nearly breaks a window, and the search resumes.

By the time they’ve unearthed every last Super Ball from under their beds and mixed in with their socks, the baskets are brimming. They begin the long walk down to the first floor, four baskets bobbing along behind them.

He and James take the lead. They duck their heads around corners, checking every corridor and stairwell for teachers or Peeves, their footsteps sound loud in the empty corridors and they keep snickering for no reason and Sirius gets that feeling he gets during a really great adventure, the one where his heart races and he can’t stop grinning. He looks at James as they take their last corner. He’s beaming too.

Down one last stairwell and finally they’re at their destination: the landing overlooking the first floor grand staircase. They’re stories above the Great Hall but they can hear its lunchtime clamour from here, drifting up to meet them. Past the marble railing is a bird’s eye view of the whole lobby, way, way below.

The four of them lean over the banister, stifle their laughter, and wait.

Finally:

“Look!” whispers Remus, pointing. The first tide of students is wandering out of the Great Hall.

James nods. “Get set, everybody.”

Each of them pulls and shoves at his overflowing basket (they’re much heavier than they look) until they’ve got them lined up against the banister. Sirius ends up in the middle, Peter on his right and Remus on his left with James at his side.

Looking one way and then the other, Sirius feels himself swell up inside, like someone’s put a balloon in his chest. He’s up here with his best friends in his favourite place in the world, about to pull off their best prank yet. It’s a whole-body happiness, and he’s so excited he might shake apart any second.

The bell rings. Down below—way, way below—a steady crowd is funneling out of the Great Hall, making its way toward the grand staircase. Sirius cranes his head to meet James’ eye.

“Now?” he says.

James grins. “Now!”

And all four of them heave their baskets up into their arms and, with all their might, hurl the contents out over the banister.

There’s really nothing quite like watching several thousand bright green Super Balls rain down on the entire population of your school. Later Sirius will wish he’d had a camera, because it’s an image he wants to hang onto for the rest of forever.

It’s the most incredible pandemonium he's ever seen. The initial cascade brings shouts of terror and glee and possibly both, filling the cavernous room as the Super Balls plummet to earth in a neon hail. They hit the flagstone floor with a storm of little popping sounds and rocket back up in arcs over everyone’s heads, drawing gasps and laughter and shrieks.

Super Balls zoom in every direction, at every angle, Sirius doesn’t know where to look: they ricochet down the stairs and rebound off the walls, they shoot straight up toward the ceiling like tiny green fireworks, they bounce into people’s faces and, from the sound of it, shatter one of the House hourglasses. Down below, students are ducking for cover or standing in confusion or laughing themselves silly, a few teachers whip their wands out to stop the chaos but can come up with no spell to stop it, and still the Super Balls bounce on.

But Sirius stops paying attention to the anarchy below and looks at his friends. James is beside himself, thrown back from the bannister to raise both fists and shout a cry of victory to the heavens. It doesn’t sound quite as impressive as it could, as James is too breathless from laughter.

“SUCCESS!” he cries, and lets out a raucous whoop. “ _Merlin_ , Pete, what spell is on those?!”

Only seconds ago Peter was hurling handfuls of extra Super Balls that got stuck at the bottom of his basket out into the abyss, and now he’s grinning so wide his face might crack. With pure, wild jubilation he cries out, “ _Physics!_ ”

James laughs some more.

Everything is madness and chaos and excitement. Overall, it’s one of Sirius’ best moments ever.

But today is the day that he ruins everything, and he looks at his other side at Remus, Remus who is doing nothing at all but holding the banister with both hands and staring down at the joy they made with wide eyes and a smile that’s huge and gentle at once, and Sirius really wants to kiss him. And he’s in danger of toppling over the side of the banister right this second because the realisation is a punch to the stomach and a kick to the chest and his chair legs falling out from under him and a smack squarely in the face with a neon green Super Ball and something clicking gently into place that's been there all along. All of it at once.

 

***

 

 

 


	6. the human menagerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Burn that bridge when we get to it, won’t we?”
> 
> “I think it’s ‘cross’.”
> 
> “What?”

 

***

 

Sirius has been acting oddly.

Remus doesn’t think he’s imagining things; he knows him well enough after two years to tell. It’s not a big change, just a litany of details that have added up over the last weeks of term to equal _odd._

It’s only a detail that Sirius Black never sits in a confined space like a train car without sprawling his legs out over the seat, regardless of whoever’s lap is in the way. And yet.

“Your go, Pete,” Sirius says from Remus’ right. He’s pressed tightly against the window, knees together, feet on the floor. It’s odd.

“What’s the score?”

“Three hundred and ninety-two to three hundred and fourteen,” Sirius says. “You lot have got some catching up to do.”

“What else is new,” Remus says.

Peter puts down a faintly smoking card. “What’re you two gonna do when you get back, then?”

“Drive Mum mad, no doubt,” James says, grinning. “It’ll be great. Bet you five Galleons she tries to give you a haircut this time,” he says to Sirius.

Sirius’ eyes widen in horror. His free hand flies reflexively to his hair, falling dark and wavy to his shoulders. “I think _not_.”

“Just a trim, you ponce.”

“I’m not letting whoever does your hair near mine.”

James flicks a violently sparking card at him.

“ _Oy!_ ”

“Sure you’ve got to go back to those gits so soon?” James asks. “Mum and Dad said they’d take you all summer, no problem.”

“I wish. It was a fight getting her to agree to two weeks.” Sirius glares at his cards. “They don’t want me around but they won’t let me leave.”

Peter wags his finger at James, faux-scolding. “They think you’re a bad influence.”

“And they’re right, aren’t they?”

“At least I’ll get to see Andromeda,” Sirius says. “It’s been forever, she wasn’t at the big family Christmas party. Was the worst not having her there— it’s tradition that we go hole up in the pantry and hide from everybody. This year I had to bloody _mingle_.”

“Where was she?” Remus asks.

Sirius keeps his eyes on his cards. “Expect she was traveling. She’s got enough sense to keep away from large gatherings of those blood-sucking freaks.”

It’s just a detail that Sirius hasn’t met his eyes in weeks, but Remus notices.

 

***

 

Last summer hols were fun and everything, but Sirius’ stay this year will be even better. This time, James has mastered the Refilling Charm.

“Think we’re old enough?” says Sirius, peering at the label of a tall dark bottle. The two of them are on the floor of the darkened sitting room, it’s well past midnight, and James has successfully unlocked his parent’s liquor cabinet. “Mum said this stuff stunts your growth.”

“You chickening out?”

Sirius makes a face at him. “No way. Here, open this one.”

He passes the bottle to James, who stabs the top with a corkscrew and twists. “This thing doesn’t work.”

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“Am not, the metal thingy isn’t doing it right.”

“You’re not digging it in enough, you’ve got to really stab it.”

“You know what—” James pulls out his wand, points it at the cork, and says, “Waddiwasi.” The cork flies out and smacks him in the nose. “Ow.”

“You’re a genius. Pass it here.”

“Wait your turn.” James gives the bottle a sniff. It kind of just smells like glass. “What is this, anyway?”

“Some kind of gin, I think. I can’t read all of it.”

James looks at the label. “I thought you knew French.”

He gets an eye-roll in response. “That’s _Italian_ , Potter.”

“Whatever.”

James tips the bottle back and takes a huge gulp. It is not at all what he was expecting, like, not even a little.

“What the hell?!” Sirius shouts after James sprays a large amount of gin in his face.

“It burned!” he rasps. He swears he feels his eyes stinging.

“You got it in my _hair_ ,” Sirius whinges, because he’s annoying and also a girl.

“Well sorry, princess, hang on.” He points his wand at Sirius’ face. “ _Scour—_ ”

Sirius bats his wand away so hard it flies out of James’ hand and smacks into the coffee table.

“What the hell?”

“Don’t bother.” Sirius gets up. “Be right back.”

Sirius comes back with a damp rag from the kitchen, and for the next half hour blots it uselessly at his sticky hair and face while they work on the gin. And it really does feel like work, too.

“How in the name of Merlin’s satiny knickers do people drink this stuff?” James asks. He’s pretty sure the words came out like that.

Swallowing a mouthful, Sirius grimaces. “It’s an acquired taste,” he says. “Like champagne.”

A snigger bubbles up inside of James and then falls out. It’s funny how that keeps happening.

“Listen to you, you and your breeding. You’re so well-bred, you’re a. What is it.” He had some joke to make a second ago, but he can’t remember the word now. He gives up and moves forward. “I have such plans for this year, Black. Such plans.”

Sirius sits up a bit. He’s been reclining lower and lower across the floor as the night progresses and seems to be fighting against going completely horizontal. “Like?”

“I dunno the sef…” He pauses, regroups. “Specifics, yet. But it’s gonna be good. We know more magic now than ever, we’re _just_ getting to the level where we can be, we could be legends.”

“We’ve always been good at magic. Refilling Charm’s N.E.W.T level, you say you’ve got that alright.”

“Then we’re just getting clever enough to use it well.” He sighs, then shakes his head a little bit because it seems like the thing to do. “I mean. I mean hexing people is fun and all, but we need more big stuff. The Super Balls were good, they were good…times. But we’ve got to keep it up, keep it going, keep the big stuff.”

“The Nifflers were big. We could get some of them again.”

“That was first year, we can’t go back to stuff from _first year_. We’re not little kids anymore.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We need new things. Because we’re…”

“Because we’re older. We can do…” He makes a noise. “I dunno, but we’ll do it.” Something pops into his brain, and he isn’t sure where it came from, but he sees no reason why he shouldn’t say it. “Do you still hang round with Lily?”

Sirius blinks blearily. “You…what?”

“I haven’t seen you, y’know— you haven’t mentioned—”

Finally giving up on the struggle to stay vertical, Sirius flops backwards across the floor, his limbs splaying. All the while he lets out a great _Euuuurggghh_.

“What?”

“You’re so…” Sirius makes a frustrated sound. “Like that.”

“Oh, alright.”

“I thought you fancied Priscilla? No, that was— no, it’s Carol Marchbanks now, right?”

He scoffs. “That was forever ago. I like Wendy Burbage, I told you that.”

“The Ravenclaw Quidditch one?”

“Yeah, I told you.”

“I forgot.”

“What’s she got to do with anything?”

“You’ve got all these girls you talk about but you’re obsessed with Lily.”

James feels heat rush to his face. “I am not obsessed with her!”

“Why d’you care, then?”

“I just don’t get why you’re friends with her when she’s so annoying and bossy and horrible.”

“You just can’t understand why she likes me but hates you!” Sirius snaps, sitting up. “You’re jealous and it’s making you weird and obsessive.”

“I am _not!_ ”

“Yes you are, you obviously are and you’re being a big stubborn rock head about it!”

James wants to argue back, he does, but suddenly he can’t think of any words and his throat feels clogged up. With the realisation that he’s forgotten how to speak English, all the fight rushes out of him. He flops down onto the floor next to Sirius.

“Besides, we aren’t friends anymore,” Sirius says. “Definitely not. So everybody can…can know that and it…it’s nobody’s business.”

James sits up. “You aren’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause.”

“Alright.”

Sirius tips his head to the side and makes a scrunched up face, like something’s annoying him. “Do you…” he starts. He doesn’t finish.

“What?”

“These girls you like. Do you pick which ones?”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean, do you get to choose? Which one?”

“Yeah?” James thinks. “Yeah, I guess so.” He thinks some more. “I still don’t get what you mean.”

“I don’t think you always get to, is all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I don’t think everybody always get to pick.”

It’s quiet for a minute, until James sits up and reaches out to grab his wand and the bottle. It’s heavier than he was expecting, and he tips over a bit. “Woah,” he says. “I thought we drank way more of this.”

Sirius leans up unsteadily and grabs the bottle. “Oh.” He takes a look inside. “Y’know, I don’t think they’d notice if you didn’t do the refilling spell.”

“Good,” James says, feeling sleepy all of a sudden. “Because I can’t remember it.”

 

***

 

Sirius has to go back home eventually. As soon as he’s done unpacking, he leaves.

Usually when he goes walking with a destination, it’s to one of two places: Brianna’s shop, or Remus’ flat. When he has that thought, though, something twists the insides of his chest like wringing out a wet rag.

Brianna’s it is, then.

He approaches the shop and the familiar motorbike isn’t there for him to gaze at. It’s a little disappointing, because as much as he enjoys the music and company inside, ogling the motorbike’s one of his favourite parts about visiting. He pushes open the shop door and instead of Brianna, Malcolm’s standing behind the counter. He smiles widely at Sirius.

“Ah, was wondering if you’d show up, pipsqueak,” he says. “Bri’s out with food poisoning, so I’m filling in.”

“Do you even work here?” asks Sirius. Malcolm doesn’t answer, but comes out from behind the counter toward the rows of records. He seems excited to have something to do.

Sirius surprises himself by being nervous. He’s never been by himself with Malcolm, without the threat of Brianna overhearing their conversation. They’ve never talked about what they both discovered the very first day they met, over a year ago.

Sirius has questions. How does a wizard come to associate with a Muggle record store? Does anybody else know? How does he consistently get records and things weeks, or even months, before their release? What kind of magic would that even _be_? And why on earth would he bother in the first place?

“Come in, come in, it’s a slow day…how caught up are you?” Malcolm rifles through a box sat on a stool nearby. “Has Bri sent you the new Pink Floyd? It’s making waves.”

“I gave it to Peter, he likes that stuff.” Sirius scrunches his nose. “I hate that prog rot.”

“Right, right.” He goes back to searching. “Let’s see here— there’s a new Lou Reed, if you haven't already got that. It’s alright, bit indulgent if you ask me— and, ah, these blokes I’ve known for a bit finally got somebody to make their record, singer’s a very nice man, foreign chap but they call him Frankie or Freddie, I can’t remember which. Oh—!” He slaps a hand to his forehead. “Fuck me, I know _just_ who you’ll like—”

He runs to the other side of the shop, finds a record, and plucks it out between two fingers. “Dig this. New York Dolls, they’ve been around in the States but we’re only just finding them over here, and, technically,” he says quickly, “this one’s not supposed to come out for a week yet. But—”

“How do you do that? Get stuff early?” Sirius blurts. “We’ve never talked about it. About…that. The way we are.”

Malcolm stops and stares at him, a thoughtful look on his face. Just as he’s opening his mouth, the bell above the door jingles.

A man Sirius has seen in the shop before steps in. “Hey, heard Brianna’s out—”

Malcolm hasn’t looked away from Sirius. “Take a walk, Ricky.”

The man nods. “Righto.” He leaves, the door swings shut behind him.

There’s a pause. Finally Malcolm sighs and walks to the couch.

“Take a seat, young Master Black.”

Sirius follows. He sits there, wondering if he’s about to be scolded for something. He can’t think of what he could’ve done, but he’s been scolded enough times to recognize the signs.

But Malcolm just puts on the record, sets the needle, and sits down heavily. He sighs again, pulling a small, shriveled-looking cigarette out of his pocket. As he lights it, Malcolm mutters to himself, “Black, Black, Black, Mr Black…” He takes a pull on the cigarette, which Sirius notices smells quite strongly, and exhales a long stream of smoke.

Finally he says in a light, conversational way: “You and I have something in common, don’t we, Mr Black?”

Sirius nods.

Malcolm studies the lighter in his hand and laughs to himself. “Do you know, I’ve grown so accustomed to using this bloody thing in company that I don’t even think to use my wand when I’m alone?” He sets the lighter down and takes another pull on his cigarette, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “Funny, isn’t it? There are some days I don’t even carry it at all. My wand, I mean,” he says, turning to Sirius and smiling. “I’ve always got my lighter.” His smile drops. “Don’t tell her I’m smoking this around you, dig?”

“What?”

“What I’m saying is,” Malcolm explains, “I’ve more or less jumped ship. I don’t work with wizards anymore, most of my friends are Muggles. I’ve found that I fit in better here.” He waves the hand without the cigarette in it. “Most of our kind wouldn’t understand that, but you’re a funny one, aren’t you?”

“I guess.”

“That first day I met you here my brain right near blew up, I’ll tell you what. Weird enough that any Hogwarts kid would end up in a fucking Muggle music shop to begin with—”

“You were a Hogwarts kid.”

“—and then it turns out to be one of the bleeding _Blacks_ —” He stops. “Literally, I suppose. Have you got the, ah—” He gestures in vague up and down motion at Sirius.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Yeah, it’s annoying.”

“Anyway, what I mean is any kid of your breeding who hangs round a place like this has got to be bloody fucking weird. So…I’ll share some wisdom with you.”

He pulls at his cigarette. Through a stream of smoke he says, “Look at this place.” He does another vague gesture, this time encompassing the whole room. “You think wizards could do this? New singles every week, keeping an ear to the ground for changes, every moment? Around here anything older than the last shipment’s old news. This shop, right here, this is the real world, mate, and things move fast.”

Malcolm shakes his head. “The rest of our lot, they couldn’t keep up for a second. They pride themselves on staying stock still— Merlin, they still dress like it’s bloody 1400, it’s right embarrassing. And that,” he says, “is why we are good and well fucked.”

“Huh?”

“Ever since the Statute of Secrecy,” Malcolm says, and he sounds quite serious suddenly, “our lot’s been hiding their heads in the sand and refusing to go on with how the rest of the world’s growing. They refuse to see what’s right in fucking front of their eyes, and something big’s coming. The kind of big that comes from building a whole bleeding society off the idea that they’re better than everybody else. Built all on ‘us’ and ‘them’, and it’s gonna be ugly, you mark my words,” he says, talking faster and faster now. “I reckon you read the _Prophet_?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s rubbish. If you’re gonna read it at all, here’s what you do: skip to the back. Look at all the stuff they hide in the way back pages. Don’t want us to know, do they? What’s really going on out there— they’d rather we stayed oblivious.”

“Like the fires?”

“Sure, but there’s more than that, there’s bloody well more, and where it’s spreading is in young and impressionable minds. They recruit young, they always do, you see it all the time. So you’ve got to promise me,” he says, and he’s turned to look directly at Sirius now, “if anybody tells you they’ve got a group and they want you to join, you won’t do it.”

“I— okay.” He hasn’t got a clue what Malcolm’s talking about, but his tone is very urgent.

“Anybody who tries to recruit kids can’t be trusted. I know you wanna think you’re a big man when you’re young, but it’s not about you. It’s what it says about _them_ , dig? You can’t trust ’em.”

“Alright.”

Malcolm sighs. “How old are you now?”

“Thirteen.”

He laughs bitterly and leans back against the couch, looking up at the ceiling. “My God, the mess we’ve made for you. It’s been brewing for hundreds of years and it’s time to pay the piper.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sirius says.

Malcolm closes his eyes, and a few seconds go by. He exhales heavily. Sirius imagines he’s calming himself.

Finally, he opens his eyes, sticks his cigarette behind his ear, and says, “Don’t worry, lad. You will.” He stands. “Come on. _Melody Maker_ reckons glam’s just about had its death rattle, but we might as well get you the latest Roxy Music.”

When Sirius makes to leave it’s with some new records under his arm and more questions than ever. But before he walks through the door, he turns back and says, “You never did tell me how you get stuff before it’s released.”

Malcolm smiles, and it’s rather mischievous. “No Unforgivables, don’t you worry your little head. Now get.”

The whole walk home, Sirius has got plenty to think about.

He lets himself into the house as quietly as he can, praying like always that his mother won’t take any notice of him. As he takes the stairs past the severed house-elf heads he tries to think of what Malcolm might’ve meant.

Some of it he understood— he’s learned over the past two years that Muggles are much cooler than his family has made them out to be. They have motorbikes and great music and physics and Super Balls. Before, though, he took that stuff for granted as just the ways that Muggles were weird and interesting, but is the real difference that their world changes, and Sirius’ doesn’t? And what does that have to do with strings of arson across the country, stories hid in the back of newspapers?

Without paying real attention to where he’s going, Sirius sits down in the drawing room. He hears Malcolm’s words in his head. _Something big’s coming_. Something big? Sirius has no idea what he meant by that but he doesn’t like the feeling it gives him, something tight and cold like dread.

From this chair Sirius can see almost the entirety of the Black family tapestry. He usually ignores the thing as best he can, but today he finds himself staring it. _Building a whole society off the idea that they’re better than everybody else_ , Malcolm said. Well, sure, that sounds like a close enough description of his family, Sirius thinks, his eyes tracking branch to branch to branch of pure blood. But the whole wizarding world? Is that really what they are?

It’s this sort of thing, he thinks, that he wants to talk to Andromeda about when he finally sees her next. She’d know, and she’d give him real answers. That’s what she always did when they were younger. They’d run off and hide someplace where her twin sisters couldn’t find them, and she’d teach him things— all the ways that what he heard round the dinner table was a heap of dragon dung. She’s a full eight years older than he is, but there’s always been a feeling between them of kindred spirits, that they’re both on the same side in understanding how bloody absurd the Blacks are.

But she hasn’t been around in ages, and there’s new things Sirius wants to know. How did she deal with it, being one of them at school? It must’ve been even worse for her, having been in Slytherin; at least he’s got his House to clearly separate him from the slimy inbred line that made him. She would understand all this weird shame he’s got. He wants to talk to her about what it’s like for people to take one look at her and _know_ (everybody who says Sirius and Bellatrix look alike ought to see Bella and Andromeda stand next to each other), how she handles the reality that she’ll never get away from what she is, not ever.

Absently, Sirius gets up and crosses the drawing room to stand in front of the tapestry. He could talk to her about any of that stuff, couldn’t he? He’s tried sending her letters once or twice but they’ve never been answered; he reckoned she was busy, or didn’t like writing and was waiting to see him in person instead. How long has it been since he saw her? His eyes wander down the tapestry, and he draws his finger across the golden thread to where he knows her name will be written. If he could ever trust anyone, it’d be her. She would understand him, she’d—

Sirius’ hand drops.

Beside _Narcissa Black_ and _Bellatrix Black_ there’s nothing but a small round burn.

 

***

 

A few weeks into the summer holidays and Peter’s already bored senseless.

The one upside of this holiday is that Mum has finally gotten them a family owl (“I’m a witch, might as well act like it,” she said), which she keeps in the old dilapidated shed with the half-missing roof to come and go as it pleases. Granddad grumbles about it for a bit, but even he admits that the owl’s removed enough from the house to keep from being suspicious.

Peter’s thrilled at the prospect of sending letters whenever he wants. There’s only one problem.

“You can’t name an owl _Yvonne_ ,” Peter says.

“Why not?” Mum says as she fills Yvonne’s bowl. They’re in the broken-down shed, sunlight streaming in from the chunk of missing roof.

“Because it’s a terrible name for an owl!”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Owls should have cool names,” he says. “Like Nightwing.”

“Next time you pay for an owl, name it whatever you like.”

Peter groans. Yvonne hoots.

Later, Tesla curls up with him on his bed while he writes a letter.

_Remus,_

_Mum got us an owl! Her name’s Nightwing and definitely not Yvonne. I hope you’re feeling alright and that the moon last night wasn’t too horrible._

_You know, I just realised how often we say that and I don’t really know what it means. What’s a ‘bad’ moon like? Do you know why some are better than others? How different is a bad moon from a good one? Maybe ‘good’ is the wrong word._

_Merlin, that’s an awfully nosy thing to ask. Only answer if you feel like it, of course. I’m just curious._

_I’m so bored I can hardly stand it. Can’t believe it’s only July. I’ve already spent all my pocket money going to the cinema and my cousins tease me about it. Clive says it’s a waste of time, but what else is there to do? Films are loads more fun than here, and they’re cheaper than comic books. Have you seen any James Bond? I reckon the other James would like him._

_I just want it to be September already. I feel like a Martian round here. Clive and Roger keep pestering me for details about my ‘posh tart boarding school’ but it’s not as though I can tell them how much I’m looking forward to Arithmancy, can I? I’m really excited about it. In Muggle school the only lessons I was any good at were the ones with maths, and Dirk says that all you do in Arithmancy is talk about numbers. And even if I am awful at it, at least you’re in it too to keep me company._

_Hope your mum’s well and you and Sirius are having fun running round London, or whatever it is you lot do over hols. Tesla says hello._

_Peter_

 

***

 

Sirius’ legs take over, carrying him into the corridor at a run. He hears himself shouting as if from far away.

“Hey! HEY!”

His heart hammers so loudly in his ears that he barely hears the footsteps racing up the stairs. Regulus appears, looking harried and frightened. “What?”

“Andromeda’s not on the tapestry.”

“I…what?”

Giving up on words, Sirius grabs him by the wrist and hauls him into the drawing room, dragging him into place before the burn. “She’s not on it, she’s burnt, she’s not…”

But Regulus doesn’t look surprised. He isn’t even looking at the tapestry at all, but has his eyes on Sirius. His face is drawn and sad, but not shocked. “Listen…”

If his heart was hammering before, Sirius swears it stops.

“What happened?”

“It was ages ago,” Regulus says in a small voice. “I didn’t realise nobody’d told you.”

“Reg,” he growls, his teeth gritted, “What _happened_?”

“They said she ran off with a Muggle-born. There’s a baby now.”

“A—?” He can’t breathe right. “How’s there a baby? How long ago was this?”

“Ages.”

Sirius feels things coming together, like pieces of a puzzle he very much doesn’t want to solve.

“She wasn’t at Christmas,” he says.

“It was…before that.”

“I thought— I thought—” Sirius takes big gulping breaths to calm himself down but it does nothing, he still wants to rip this whole room up with his hands— “I thought she was out of TOWN!”

Sirius whirls around, Regulus flinches; he aims the biggest kick he can muster at the closest chair which, it turns out, is made of solid walnut under its upholstery and a second later he crumples to the floor, clutching his foot. There’s pain shooting up through his toes like he broke something and Sirius lets out a strangled cry, and whether it’s from rage or pain or the horrible embarrassment he can feel turning his face scarlet he doesn’t know but it makes him feel just a little bit better to shout so he keeps doing it, again and again while Regulus hovers over him paralyzed, until he hears someone come into the room.

A croaky voice says, “Would Master Sirius like some ice?” and Sirius wants to kill something.

“Fuck OFF, Kreacher!” he screams, and hears his voice crack up what sounds like an entire octave, and of course that would happen right now, when he’s already balled up on the floor with a foot he smashed with his own stupidity, throwing a temper tantrum for his little brother and a house-elf.

Determined to salvage some of his dignity, Sirius pushes Regulus away and hobbles as best he can over to the fireplace. Pointing his wand at the empty grate, he mumbles, “Incendio”. Flames leap up in the grate. He grabs the stupid snobby crystal vase they keep Floo powder in from the mantel and hurls a fistful into the fire.

“Andromeda Black.”

Regulus says, “That won’t work.”

“Yes it will, you can use names, I’ve seen Dad do it before. Andromeda Black.” He waits, but there’s nothing. “Andromeda Black.”

Nothing.

“Andromeda Black. Andromeda Black. _Andromeda Black._ ”

“It won’t work,” Regulus says, in the kind of quiet voice people use when they talk to angry horses, “because that’s not her name anymore.”

“Oh yeah. Lucky her. What is it?”

“What?”

“What’s the Muggle-born’s surname?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know_?”

“How would I know it?”

“You, you just—” Sirius squeezes his hands into fists so tight they nearly vibrate and watches his little brother stand there, looking sad and patient, and it just makes him angrier that ever since they were little Regulus has always been the mature and patient one while Sirius snarls and breaks things. “Someone should know!”

“You could write her a letter,” Regulus says. “Charon could find her, probably.”

Sirius nods to himself. “Yeah.”

“He’s in your room.”

“Who?”

Regulus gives him a look. “Charon?”

“Right,” says Sirius. “Okay.”

He turns and leaves the sitting room to climb up the two flights of stairs to his bedroom, his foot throbbing all the way. When he opens the door he sees Charon perched on his desk. He hoots softly.

“Shut up,” Sirius grumbles.

He sits down and takes out a sheet of parchment, assuming by the time his quill hits the paper he’ll know what to say, but he doesn’t. He smacks his head down onto the desk and rests it there, feeling sorry for himself. What on earth could he possibly say that wouldn’t be stupid and pointless?

He writes _Dear Andromeda_ , but doesn’t know what to put next. _Congratulations on your wedding_ or _Congratulations on being disowned_ aren’t good, neither is _Sorry they’ll never let me see you now until I move out,_ or _I’m realising some things about our family and the whole wizarding world and I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who could tell me anything useful_.

If he had any courage he could put _I have a crush on one of my best friends and it’s like getting my insides dipped in acid every single day_ but he doesn’t, and he could put _You’re the only person who stands a chance of really understanding me_ but he won’t.

Not even _Are babies weird?_ seems right.

In the end, he throws the parchment away and lets Charon out for the night. Flopping face-first onto his bed, he misses his four poster in Gryffindor Tower more than ever.

 

***

 

_Dear Peter and Tesla and Nightwing/Yvonne,_

_I assume that by Tesla ‘says hello’ you mean ‘hisses and tries to claw Remus’ eyes out’. You’d think after two years she’d be used to me. Maybe third time’s a charm._

_I don’t mind answering at all, those are excellent questions. I can’t say I know the answer— as you can imagine, research on the health and well-being of werewolves post-transformation (or, you know, in general) is thin on the ground. In my experience, a ‘bad’ moon is one during which the wolf is especially…bad-tempered, I guess. He’s never exactly a sunny fellow, but some months he’s in worse a mood than others, and his temper has a hand in deciding how badly he scratches himself up over the course of the night. When he’s calmer (relatively) he doesn’t bite and claw quite as much, and my recovery’s quicker._

_I have noticed— and take this with as much salt as you please, I’m not a scientist— that my own mood may have something to do with it. It could be a coincidence, but the moons seem to be easier when I’m in a better frame of mind myself, and vice versa._

_This one wasn’t great. It doesn’t help that recovery’s always a bit tougher without the healing spells I get at school. Mum feels eternally guilty about that no matter how much I tell her not to, and then I feel guilty because she feels guilty, and the whole flat turns into a big ball of guilt. Lupins do guilt well, I think._

_Your cousins are always pestering you about one thing or another. Films aren’t a waste of time, especially for somebody like you who really loves them. I saw one of the James Bonds with Mum years ago, I can’t remember which it was. You’re right, I reckon our James would relate quite strongly to him. ‘The name’s Potter—_ _James_ _Potter.’_

_I’m also looking forward to Arithmancy, though I’m sure you’ll beat me at it by miles. Mum’s very well, she thanks you for asking. She’s teaching summer school, which at least gives her plenty of stories to tell me._

_As for Sirius— I haven’t seen or heard from him since King’s Cross. I didn’t want to say anything, but I think he’s angry with me. He was acting oddly for the last weeks of term, did you notice anything? I can’t imagine what I’ve done to upset him._

_I’m with you in wanting September to get here._

_Yours,_

_Remus_

 

***

 

On their first day back Peter is in high spirits. His first lesson of the day is Arithmancy, which he’s been dying to study since he first learned there was such a thing. Finally, finally, here’s something Peter might be good at. Plus, Remus is in the class too, so even if Peter is awful he won’t be alone.

Speaking of Remus, no sooner had they gotten back to school than James, Sirius, and Peter sprang to action on the next phase of the Animagus plan. ‘Sprang’ might be the wrong word, though, since the three of them are having such trouble finding any time to scheme without Remus around that it’s rather slow-going. Last night James dragged him and Sirius out of their beds at one in the morning for an emergency meeting in the common room.

“So we know Sprout has new Mandrakes in,” Sirius said.

“Yeah, I checked,” James confirmed, and he sounded very no-nonsense for someone in bright red Snitch pyjamas. “Getting the stems shouldn’t be hard, she’s got them in a back room but I don’t think it’s locked during the daytime. The books say the potion’s got to be brewed during a crescent moon, but this’ll give us something to do until then.”

“How do we break in without Remus asking where we’ve gone?” Peter asked. “Or brew the potion? Or do any of this without Remus asking questions?”

James said, “Isn’t that just the bloody question,” and they all went back to bed.

Peter’s started to get a horrible feeling that Remus might know something’s up; he nearly caught them whispering after the start of term feast. Peter could be imagining it— it’s not like being nervous most of the time, like he is, _doesn’t_ make you imagine things— but he thinks he’s seen a suspicious look in Remus’ eye. Peter darts a sideways look at him now.

Walking next to him in the corridor, Remus lifts an eyebrow. “Have I got something on my face?”

Peter looks straight ahead. Caught. “No.”

“Don’t be nervous, Professor Vector will love you.”

“Teachers never love me.”

“Well, maybe she’ll be the first,” Remus says.

On his other side, Sirius snorts. The sound almost startles him; Sirius has been in such a dower mood since the night they got back that it’s rather like walking to class with the Bloody Baron. Peter knows it’s because of Regulus being Sorted into Slytherin, but realistically he can’t imagine what else Sirius could’ve expected.

Nearly colliding with a group of first years, James studies his timetable as they walk. “So Sirius and I have got Divination—”

Remus lets out a little sound that from a less polite person would be a scoff. James waves him off.

“It’ll be easy, just look at a crystal ball and make some stuff up. Much easier than whatever they’re going to make you do in Care of Magical Creatures, no doubt.”

“Seeing that I am myself a magical creature, I reckon I ought to learn to care for myself,” Remus says breezily. “I don’t know what Sirius’ excuse is, though.”

“I’ve always suspected him of being subhuman,” James riffs, but Sirius doesn’t take the bait and keeps walking quietly. James frowns.

“Are you going to mope about it much longer, Black, because I was planning on perhaps having a _little_ fun today.”

“Not moping,” Sirius growls, in a mopey sort of way.

“Yeah, alright.”

“I’m not _moping_ ,” Sirius says. “Why would I? It wasn’t a surprise. Besides, I don’t care what he does or what slithery gits he associates with.”

James shrugs. “Whatever, mate.”

They’ve come to a sort of traffic hot spot on the second floor, where a couple of different corridors intersect. It’s also the first day back so everything is somehow more crowded than usual, everyone bustling around not watching where they’re going. So it doesn’t shock Peter much when he accidentally runs into somebody— a large somebody, he notices, as he’s nearly knocked to the floor.

“Watch it,” the boy grunts, shoving past. Peter recognises him: Flint, a Slytherin in the year above them. He’s never talked to them before, but James and Sirius gave him boils last term. Peter doesn’t think much of it; he keeps walking. But a second later he hears Sirius’ voice behind him.

“How about you watch it, ugly?”

He turns around. Sure enough, there’s Sirius and James, facing down with somebody who probably weighs as much as the two of them combined.

Flint glares at them. “I wouldn’t have to if your friend kept his fat arse out of the way.”

It happens very quickly after that. James and Sirius both go for their wands so fast that Peter doesn’t see it happen and shout incantations that he doesn’t recognise and, a flash and a bang later, Flint clutches his throat and makes a strangled choking noise. He holds one burly arm up to his nose, which is oozing something yellow and unpleasant-looking.

Peter ends up being five minutes late to his first ever Arithmancy lesson: Flint swears to Professor McGonagall that Peter shoved him first, and he gets detention for that evening right along with Sirius and James. It’s still a great lesson, though.

 

***

 

Monday afternoon finds Sirius at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, tending a salamander fire pit he’s sharing with Remus, which is something that never would’ve been a bloody problem before.

Sirius vowed last term after his, er, _discovery_ to not spend time alone with Remus for the sake of his own sanity. But that was after the two of them had already signed up for Care of Magical Creatures while James and Peter had opted for Muggle Studies, so here he is, trying his best to act normal but rapidly forgetting what ‘normal’ felt like. Was there really a time when he could look Remus in the face without getting the sensation he was going to choke on his own heartbeat? Did Sirius really used to drape himself all over him on the sofas in the common room, totally oblivious, and not feel at all like a disgusting freak? He can hardly speak to Remus anymore without hating himself for taking advantage. It’s messed up how Sirius can sit next to him and go all gooey inside over his hair and his freckles and his eyes and his cleverness and how bloody _kind_ he is while the whole time Remus has no idea, would never suspect what was really going on in Sirius’ head and flopping around in his gut. Do many thirteen-year-olds feel like dirty old men? He doesn’t know, but he grows more disgusted with himself every day.

Merlin, they used to share _beds._

All he can do is try not to look at him too much. It’d be easier for Sirius to distract himself if he had more friends in this class. There are only two other Gryffindors here: Jeanette and Vera, at the fire pit adjacent to theirs. Sirius got along fine with Jeanette before, but the looks she keeps shooting Remus are making him like her less and less.

 _Stupid_ , he scolds himself. _She’s allowed to fancy him if she wants._ Still, he aims a particularly vicious stab at a clump of charcoal with his poker and comes worryingly close to impaling their salamander.

Remus looks at him, concerned. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Sirius moves his eyes elsewhere. “Yeah.”

“It’s just that you’ve been even moodier than usual since we got back.”

“I’m not _moody_.”

“You are, a bit.”

“I prefer ‘mercurial’.”

“Simply an observation.” Remus goes about shredding up some newspaper and stuffing the bits under the logs. “It’s understandable that you’re upset about Regulus.”

Oh Merlin, he really does not want to talk about this. “I’m not stupid, I knew how he’d Sort.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Alright.”

The salamander crawls over the biggest log, curling up beside an ember. Sirius watches it.

“Andromeda got disowned,” he says.

Remus drops a chunk of newspaper. “What? Why?”

“She and a Muggle-born got married. They have a baby now.”

“Oh.”

“It was a while ago. They didn’t tell me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Blame my stupid family.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way to see her,” Remus says gently, and Merlin, now he’s trying to, what, console him? Of course he is, Remus is the nicest person on the planet and Sirius really, really wants to break something. Instead he prods the fire and changes the subject.

“How was Arithmancy?”

“It was lovely, Peter was in his element.”

“Yeah?”

“He has quite a knack, it seems.”

“Makes sense, that big maths-y brain of his,” Sirius says. “I don’t get why he’s doing Muggle Studies, though. He’s lived with Muggles his whole life.”

“Because James is, of course. How was Divination?”

Sirius snorts. “Yeah, I wouldn’t say either of us has a knack. Lot of hot air, if you ask me.”

“I tend to agree.” Remus skewers a dried pepper on the end of his poker and offers it to their salamander, who is now basking on a large chunk of flaming charcoal and appears uninterested. “Are you upset with me? It’s alright if you are.”

Sirius squints into the flames. “She doesn’t look upset, maybe she just isn’t hungry.”

“I’m not talking to the salamander, Sirius.”

“Aren’t you? I’ve named her Judith, if you’re curious.” But Remus just looks at him, expectant. Sirius drops his eyes. “Why would I be upset with you?”

When Remus responds his is voice light and casual, but his eyes are fixed on Judith. “It’s nothing, I was only wondering why you never visited my place over the summer. You’re usually over quite a lot during the holidays and I was curious. I thought maybe you were angry with me.”

“I wasn’t angry with you. I was busy, I guess.”

“Of course. Was only wondering.”

Finally Remus looks up from Judith, who has finally acquiesced to nibbling the pepper off the poker. His careful smile slides away and is replaced by something like concern in his expression; it creases his forehead and sits warmly in his big, stupid brown eyes. Sirius looks away, but too late: his stomach’s turning over again. Would they get a T on the assignment if he was sick all over their fire pit?

“I really am sorry about Andromeda,” he hears Remus say. “And Regulus. You are alright, aren’t you?”

“’Course I am.”

“And you’d tell me if you weren’t?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Mum, thanks.”

Remus laughs. “From what I’ve heard of your mother, she and I have very little in common.”

“Can say that again,” Sirius says darkly. He looks into the fire. “Judith’s awfully still.”

 

***

 

“Remus killed Judith,” Sirius sing-songs as he slides into his seat at the Gryffindor table. Peter is curious but knows better than to ask.

Coming along behind him, Remus has the world-wearied look of a person who just dealt with Sirius Black for an hour. “I did not.” He drops his bag and sits down. “It was an accident, Professor Kettleburn said himself that he could’ve been clearer about which peppers are supposed to be fed to the salamanders and which ones are supposed to be crushed and rubbed into their skin, it’s—”

But Sirius is already diving at him, butter knife clenched in his fist. “ _I will avenge you, Judith!_ ”

“Remus,” James interrupts, “I saw Jeanette on the way down here, she had a question about Arithmancy homework.”

The two of them pause, suspended mid-wrestle. Remus’ elbow is against Sirius’ clavicle, Sirius has about climbed up onto the table and nearly upends a platter of chops. “Did she?”

“Yeah, I think I saw her in the Entrance Hall.”

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Sirius sits back down and gives a great groan. “That was awful.”

“What?”

“That excuse to get him away so we can scheme. How long’s it going to take him to realise she hasn’t actually got an Arithmancy question?”

“No, she really was looking for him,” James says. He raises his eyebrows. “Though, now I think about it, that’s not a bad idea. How do we use that for a distraction? Think we could get her to ask him on a date or something?”

Sirius makes a weird half-sound and reaches for the nearest platter.

“Not likely,” Peter says. “‘Hey Jeanette, please take our friend on a date on the grounds on this particular evening’?”

“Think that’s a stupid idea,” Sirius snaps.

“I know, was only joking.”

“What, then?” James says. “We’ve got to think of something to keep him from wondering where we are long enough to get into Greenhouse Three.”

Sirius gnaws sullenly on the end of his fork. “Fake our own deaths.”

“Bit less permanent, I think, but I like the energy. Pete?”

“Er,” Peter says. “Say you lot have got remedial Transfiguration too for once?”

“He’ll never believe that.” James clicks his fingers. “Feed Polyjuice Potion to some first years and have them pose as us.”

“Takes a month to brew,” Sirius points out. “Really think we ought to just fake our own deaths.”

They argue about it a bit longer— James’ ideas are the most extravagant, though Sirius’ involve a lot more simulated murder and tragic accidents— until Sirius pointedly clears his throat. Peter looks over his shoulder and sees Remus approaching. The three of them make a show of eating their lunch like normal people and not conspiring.

Remus looks unconvinced. “You lot look suspicious.”

“How’s Jeanette?”

“She’s just fine,” he answers, sitting down. He serves himself shepherd’s pie and says, “Wanted to know about the essay.”

“Did she really, or was the essay a handy excuse?” James says with a smirk.

Remus raises his eyebrows, coy. “None of your business.”

Sirius fumbles and spills the jug of pumpkin juice he was holding.

“What were you talking about?” Remus asks.

“Nothing,” says Peter.

“Quidditch,” says James.

“Faking our own deaths,” says Sirius.

“Right.”

“Why do you ask?” Sirius says.

“To be honest, I’ve gotten the feeling that you lot are keeping something from me.”

James snorts. “Come off it. Like what?”

“I don’t know, but it seems like lately I’ll leave a room and when I come back in you all stop talking, as if I—”

He’s cut off by Sirius lunging across the table at him; he scoops his hand across Remus’ plate and cries, “Think fast, Cresswell!” A few seats away, Dirk gets a fistful of minced meat to the face. He doesn’t take kindly to it.

The ensuing food fight changes the subject well enough. Peter has got to hand it to Sirius that he’s got a particular knack for staging diversions.

But Peter knows it isn’t sustainable. He sits in Charms picking peas out of his hair and squirming with nerves and darting anxious looks at Remus because he’s on to them, of _course_ he is, how did they ever think they could keep this mad scheme of theirs from him? Secrets never last long in their group. How much longer until he finds them out?

 

***

 

“Six letters,” Sirius says. “‘Best when kept’.”

The common room is curiously empty for a Tuesday afternoon. Sirius found a discarded _Sunday Prophet_ somewhere and is stretched out on a sofa to do the crossword.

James pauses in levitating various items across the room— a cushion, some textbooks, a single Chocolate Frog, Casey Jordan’s cat— to scoop up the rest of the newspaper. He glances at the front page and snorts. “‘ _Winners of regional Gobstones competition_ ’. Who bloody cares?”

“‘Best when kept’.” Peter raps his knuckles against the arm of his chair in a contemplative sort of way. “The peace. Your wits about you.”

“Six letters, genius.”

“Beehives,” Remus says.

“ _Six l_ — none of you can count, can you?”

James crushes the _Sunday Prophet_ between his hands, shapes it into a big ball, cocks his arm back. “Five Galleons I hit the stairs from here.”

Something pops into Sirius’ head.

“Let me see that.” He plucks the newspaper ball from James’ fist and un-wads it.

“Suit yourself, it’s rubbish. Remus, what’re you doing today?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Just wondering if you had plans.”

Remus sounds confused. “When do we ever have plans?”

“Not going to the library or anything?”

“Why would I go to the library?”

Sirius smooths a page from the far back of the _Prophet_ across the nearest end table. A gossip column, an advert for Mrs Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, a little paragraph squashed between with a headline in small print: _Twelve Found Dead In Muggle House of Worship._

“You’re always going to the library.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Sirius peers at the paragraph. “Hey, look at this.”

“What?” Peter says.

“It’s odd, isn’t it, that this would be in the back?”

James slumps over to lie upside down in his armchair. “Huh?”

“‘ _Muggle liaisons confirm use of the Killing Curse— Ministry suspects…’_ ” Sirius double-checks. Is he reading this right? “‘ _Ministry suspects terrorist involvement.’_ Mad, to have that in the back of the paper?”

James is still working on Remus. “Didn’t you say yesterday that you wanted to get a head start on the Transfiguration reading?”

“No?”

“Yeah you did. You definitely wanted to go to the library today.”

“Why do you want me to go to the library so badly?”

“What’s ‘vigilante’ mean?” Sirius asks.

Remus looks over at him. “Somebody who takes the law into their own hands, why?”

“‘ _Minister and Magical Law Enforcement emphasize zero tolerance for vigilante sects_.’ All the way back here, it says that.”

“ _I_ don’t want you to go to the library,” James tells Remus. “ _You_ do.”

“It’s just that Malcolm said something about how they don’t put anything important on the front,” Sirius says. “He said that you’ve got to look in—”

“Maybe I did want to go to the library.” Remus furrows his eyebrows. “I couldn’t quite follow McGonagall’s lecture. Maybe I ought to get a head start…”

“See, told you.”

“Yeah, suppose I’ll go read up for a bit. Oh—” Halfway to standing, Remus falters. He sets a hand on Sirius’ wrist to get his attention.

Sirius’ stomach lurches and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

Eyes bright on his, Remus says, “It’s _secret_.”

“What?”

“‘Secret’. Six letters, ’best when kept’.”

Sirius swallows. “Right. Thanks.”

Once Remus has gone through the portrait hole, James jumps to his feet.

“Shake a leg, lads, no telling how long we’ve got.”

“Er.” Peter grimaces. “Problem.”

“Nonsense, off to Greenhouse Three, come on.”

“I was double-checking the books last night,” Peter says. “There’s a footnote about the potion ingredients.”

“What?”

“The stems have got to be used fresh.”

“So?”

“The potion’s got to be brewed during a crescent moon, remember?”

“So?”

“Really fresh,” Peter says. “Picked-the-day-of fresh.”

Sirius groans. “First quarter, isn’t it?”

“So we can’t even pick the stupid things for another— what, two weeks? Three?”

“Looks like it.”

“I’m getting really sick of waiting,” Sirius says.

James plops back down into his chair, limbs going everywhere. “Tell me about it.”

“How’re we gonna distract him long enough to get the stems _and_ brew the damned thing all at once?” Sirius says.

“Isn’t that just the bloody question,” Peter mumbles.

 

***

 

Remus knew that September’s moon would be bad. He can always tell.

Even he isn’t sure exactly how it is he knows when one’s coming, but he’s never wrong. Is it because in the days preceding a bad full he’ll feel especially terrible, the headaches and light sensitivity and insomnia, the persistent exhaustion? Or is it because— he swears he isn’t imagining the correlation— the wolf scratches him up the worst when he’s already feeling bad about something or another? When he’s happy they’re noticeably easier, he might be in and out of the hospital wing in twenty-four hours; when he’s stressed or worried or angry he winds up out for three days. Bit insult to injury, that.

“Think you’ll be back tomorrow morning?” James asks.

Remus grimaces. “Afraid not.” His voice is still hoarse to his own ears.

“That’s too bad. It’s Quidditch trials, they’re always great for a laugh.”

“You didn’t think so last year,” Peter recalls. “You almost lost your breakfast from nerves.”

“Yeah, so now I get to laugh at the poor sods who’ve got to go through it. Perks of being the greatest Chaser in Hogwarts history.”

“What’d I miss today?”

“Turned a teapot into a tortoise for McGonagall.” James stretches in his chair, putting his feet up on Remus’ hospital bed. “Will be right useful in all our futures, no doubt. Shrinking Solutions in Potions—”

“I properly cocked that one up,” Peter says. “Whole dungeon smelled like burnt rubber, even Slughorn couldn’t tell how I managed it.”

“Flitwick’s making us do Disarming _again_.” James rolls his eyes. “Can’t imagine why that one’d be so bloody important.”

“History of Magic?”

“Hell if I know.”

“You’re the only one who pays attention,” Peter says.

“Guess we’ll never know.”

“When d’you reckon you’ll be back?” James flicks a hand, indicating the quiet hospital wing. “How long can she keep you shut up in here?”

“Might be another day or two yet.”

“Was this one bad?” Peter asks.

“I’ve had easier,” Remus says lightly. He already regrets writing to Peter about his theory over the summer. Now every time the moon is bad he’ll assume Remus is upset about something, which is embarrassing.

There are things he prefers to keep to himself. Two or three are very specific.

One of those things is how much it upsets him when his friends keep stuff from him, the hypocrisy of which isn’t lost on him. They’re obviously not telling him the truth about something; didn’t they get over lying to each other when Remus’ secret came out first year? And what’s so bad that they wouldn’t tell him about it? He’s supported plenty of his friends’ stupid ideas in the past, after all.

He wonders if it, whatever it is, is why Sirius continues to be so strange and distant with him.

 _But it was last term too,_ a small voice in Remus’ head reminds him. _And all summer he ignored you. Peter and James are acting suspicious, sure, but they’re still here right now. Sirius has been dodging you for months._

 _Maybe he just doesn’t like you anymore,_ the small voice suggests.

“What’s Sirius up to?” he asks. “He wasn’t here yesterday either.”

James shrugs. “Dunno, said something about Charms homework. Bollocks, he always finishes that in about fifteen minutes.”

“It’s just that I’ve been meaning to ask him what I missed in Care of Magical Creatures.”

“We’ll get him to come by today,” Peter says. “After dinner, if nothing else. Can’t imagine what else he’s got to do.”

But Sirius doesn’t come by that afternoon, or even later that night. Remus isn’t surprised by it. He finishes a book, swallows the potions Madam Pomfrey gives him, does some homework, takes more potion, writes Mum a letter, takes more potion again, and goes to sleep.

He definitely isn’t expecting to wake up the next morning and see Sirius. But there he is, standing by the foot of Remus’ bed and giving off a distinct aura of embarrassment.

“Hi, er, sorry,” Sirius says. He flicks his eyes away, because that’s what he does now. “Didn’t mean to— didn’t know if you were up yet.”

“No problem.”

He gives the old wry smirk, but Remus thinks it doesn’t look quite right. “James told me I had to either come here or go with him to watch Quidditch trials.”

“Quite understandable. They might be the only thing that’s more boring than I am.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Har har.” He sits down on Remus’ bed, gaze darting aimlessly: the nightstand, his own hands in his lap, the bare wall. “How’re you feeling?”

“Just fine. You?”

“Alright.”

They sit there.

Too many things are wrong right now. Sirius doesn’t get embarrassed; Sirius doesn’t sit like that, compacted like he’s afraid to take up too much space; Sirius doesn’t avoid eye contact. The silences between them aren’t uncomfortable. Remus has never once been uncomfortable with Sirius— even when he was lying to him back in first year it was never tense, never anxious, never hard at all.

“What’s going on?” Remus asks.

“What?”

“You know what I mean.”

He shrugs. “I guess.”

“Well?”

“It’s nothing. It’s stupid, I’ll get over it.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing, alright?” He shrugs again, chews on his thumbnail. “Honestly, don’t worry about it.”

“Of course I’ll worry about it,” Remus says, keeping his voice light and joking. “All the evidence suggests you’ve suddenly decided to hate me— bit late in the game for that, isn’t it?”

Sirius starts laughing and hardly stops when he says, “I don’t hate you.” He gives a frustrated little growl, spins his hands like he’s finding words. Sighs, deflates.

Finally, Sirius looks him in the eyes. “I’m a bad friend to you right now,” he says. “I’m trying to help it, but it isn’t working.”

For a moment Remus thinks it over. Then he says, “I think I know what’s going on.”

Sirius has always had the ability to turn red with remarkable speed, that near-translucent complexion of his, but this is impressive even for him. “You do?”

“Things are tough for you right now, you haven’t got to feel bad about it,” Remus explains. “It’s an uncomfortable situation you’re in, and I’m sure you must feel really alone in the middle of it. Maybe you reckon James wouldn’t understand, but if there’s anybody you should be able to talk to about it, it’s me.”

There’s abject shock on Sirius’ reddened face, his eyes wide and mouth slack. “You— you’re the _last_ person I’d want to talk to about it, are you mad?”

Remus feels hurt, and more than a little confused. “Maybe I can’t relate directly, but I can empathize, can’t I? I’ve felt like I’m…you know, _wrong_ , plenty. I can understand that.”

“I,” Sirius says, and then he stops. His mouth works soundlessly. “I can’t understand how you’re being so cool about this. How do you not want to hex me into next year?”

He starts to get the impression that he’s missing something. “Hex you? You’ve been a bit surlier than usual, sure, but—”

“This has got to make you uncomfortable, there’s no way that it doesn’t!” Sirius cries.

“What’re you talking about?”

“What’re _you_ talking about?”

“You’re upset,” Remus says, feeling increasingly like he’s explaining that two and two make four. “Andromeda got disowned, that must’ve really hurt, and of course we all knew how Regulus would Sort but it still can’t have been easy. I’m sure that for the past few months you’ve felt really out of place and like you don’t fit in anywhere, and I can understand that, so…if you’re not quite as cheery as usual, that’s alright. You haven’t got to be embarrassed by it.”

Sirius isn’t as red as he was. He might be paler than usual, actually. “Yeah.”

“That’s what all this is about, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s stupid. Ignoring me just because you don’t feel especially upbeat? It makes no sense.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.”

“You haven’t got to, alright? I don’t need you to be cheerful all the time.” Remus shrugs. “It’s cliche of me to ask you to ‘be yourself’, but…well. Be yourself. However you feel is fine with me.”

Sirius nods. He smiles an embarrassed smile that looks odd on his face. “Right. Got it.”

 

***

 

The answer to their problem presents itself on Saturday afternoon after Quidditch trials, tacked to the announcement board in the common room.

“First Hogsmeade visit!” James cries. He latches excitedly onto Peter’s shoulder, shakes him, might knock him over a bit. “This is our solution!”

Peter straightens up again, disheveled. “Pardon?”

“Two Saturdays from now— waning crescent, yeah?”

“Waxing.”

“Yeah, whatever, we—” James casts a look around at the people convened around the announcement board and drops his voice. “We can do the potion! We—”

The portrait hole swings open and Sirius tumbles through. James elbows his way through the crowd, ignoring the squawks of protest, and runs up to him.

“We’ve got it! There’s—” He sees the funny look on Sirius’ face. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Sirius says.

“First Hogsmeade visit is two Saturdays from now!”

The weird look goes away and Sirius beams. “We can do the potion!”

Peter pops up at their side. “What’s the plan?”

“We tell Remus we’ll meet him in Hogsmeade,” James says, “and while he’s busy looking through the whole village for us, we’ll be getting the stems and brewing the potion! Easy.”

“What do we tell him when he gets back and wants to know where we were?” Peter asks.

“Burn that bridge when we get to it, won’t we?”

“I think it’s ‘cross’.”

“What?”

“‘Cross…’” Peter stops. “Never mind.”

Clapping them both on the shoulders, Sirius grins. “It’s a plan.”

 

***

 

“Oh bugger,” James says as they stand in line in the Entrance Hall. “Forgot my cloak.”

“‘Forgot’?” Remus says, irritated. “I told you to grab it about a thousand times, it’s raining cats and dogs.”

“Forgot mine too,” Sirius says.

“And mine,” Peter says.

“Don’t know what’s wrong with you lot, I told—”

“We’ll be just a minute,” James says, already pulling Sirius and Peter out of the line. “Go on, we’ll get a carriage at the end.”

“Er, alright, but—” Remus doesn’t finish the sentence before they take off, running for the staircase.

Something very strange is going on.

 

***

 

They wait in the first floor corridor, watching out the window as the carriages, lead by nothing, go rolling one by one down the drive in the pelting rain.

“Alright lads,” says James, “There’s no telling if Sprout went to Hogsmeade or not, so we do run the risk of running into her while we’re in there. The name of the game is stealth, got it? We get in, we get the stems, we get out. Remember: if anything goes wrong, assemble at the rendezvous point.”

“You mean the statue of Boris the Bewildered with his gloves on wrong?” asks Peter.

“ _The rendezvous point_.”

“Coast is clear,” Sirius reports from the window.

“Everybody ready?”

“For some breaking and entering?” Sirius says with a grin. “Born ready.”

 

***

 

Remus woke up this morning excited for his first trip to the village. His mood is soured, though, by today’s rapid descent into _weird_.

Waiting in line by himself shouldn’t feel as funny as it does; does he really need his three friends flanking him to feel normal? He shows Filch his permission form, files through the front door and is instantly soaked, and hurries into the next open carriage. Thankfully the other occupants are people he knows: Dirk Cresswell, Davey Gudgeon, Marco Whitby, Casey Jordan. They start the trip rattling down the long drive toward the gates, and Remus presses himself into a corner while the fourth year boys discuss plans for the afternoon.

“What about you, Lupin?” asks Casey. “Where’re your mates?”

 _Isn’t that just the question,_ Remus thinks. “They had to run back to the dormitory. They’ll be along in a bit.”

“Must’ve been important,” Davey says. “Should think Black and Potter would be chomping at the bit to get to Zonko’s.”

“Yeah.”

“Here’s hoping they don’t make it in time,” Marco says. “Gryffindor can’t win a match without the dynamic duo losing us all our points by pouring frog spawn in somebody’s bag.”

“They only lost ten points for that,” Remus points out.

“And the dozen Dungbombs they set off in the dungeons every bloody week?” Dirk says. “How many does that lose us?”

“Fair point.”

“Oy,” Davey says, peering out the window. “Isn’t that them?”

“What?”

“Black and Potter—” (it sounds rather like one word when other people say it, Remus has noticed, _Blackenpotter_ —) “and Pettigrew, look.”

They all crane for the window. Far up the sloping hill toward the front doors are three figures, distinct through the downpour, running the length of the side of the castle and turning the corner toward the vegetable patch and greenhouses.

Remus gets up and stumbles over to the door, the wheels’ course over the muddy road beneath them making him trip into Dirk’s knees.

“Lupin, what—”

“Sorry, gents,” he says pleasantly. He finds the knob and swings the door open, wind and spraying rain swirling into the tiny cabin. “Nice talking with you.”

He flings himself out of the moving carriage and hits the ground, rolling to an ungraceful stop in the wet grass. Then he gets up, brushes himself off, and runs.

 

***

 

Though James’ pre-mission speeches are always exciting in their intensity, the mission itself turns out to be less so. In fact, when they plod through the rain to Greenhouse Three the door’s hanging open, and there’s nobody in sight.

“That’s disappointing,” says Sirius. “I was looking forward to being crafty.”

“Me too,” says Peter. “I spent all my pocket money seeing _Live And Let Die_ four times for nothing.”

“No offense, Pete, but no one understands you when you talk,” James says. He points to one of the doors off the main chamber of the greenhouse. “They’re in there, right?”

But they only get halfway across the room before the clatter of a doorknob makes them stop in their tracks. For one frantic half-second they all three stand there staring at each other, frozen in terror, but Sirius saves the day by grabbing the others by the sleeves and throwing himself to the dirty, leaf-strewn floor. They tumble to a landing behind a row of huge flowerpots just in time to hear Professor Sprout, followed by a voice they aren’t expecting.

“…nasty things, but we’ve got a good crop of them nonetheless. What sparked your interest?”

“An essay for Potions, Professor.”

Peter sees James’ face contort with disgust as he mouths, _Snivellus!_

Sure enough, when Peter risks a peek out over the top of his flowerpot he finds Snape talking with Professor Sprout right in the middle of the room, leaving them no escape in sight. James keeps mouthing angrily, but Peter loses track of what he’s saying.

Sirius gets their attention and points off to the side. The door to the mandrake room, they see, is directly adjacent to their row of pots, a straight shot from where they sit. He does a weird gesture with his hands, and Peter only gets that it’s supposed to be like a cat creeping up on its prey when Sirius mouths, _Crawl_.

Peter looks back to the door and, yeah, it’s several metres of exposed floor away from where they’re hiding, and Snape and Sprout are still talking. Crawling across the floor in the hopes of going unnoticed has got to be the worst idea he’s ever heard of, so, naturally, Sirius and James immediately go for it.

There’s even a moment when the two of them are almost halfway across the stretch of floor, Peter watching from the shadows and wondering why the bloody hell they didn’t think to bring the Cloak, that he thinks it might just work.

Then Professor Sprout says, “Boys?” and the jig is up.

They freeze. James looks up, smiling brightly, still stuck in a pose like the world’s most uncoordinated jungle cat, and says, “Hello, Professor.”

“What on earth are you doing?”

They both get to their feet, brushing soil from their damp clothes, and neither seems to have a good answer.

“We were, ah—”

“We had this thing we—”

“Never mind, I don’t want to know,” Professor Sprout declares. Peter shrinks back when she comes into his field of vision, but she doesn’t notice him. He watches her lead James and Sirius across the room, sees her stand at the door as they leave.

“Ought to be grateful I’m not calling Mr Filch, you know right well you aren’t to be in here without a teacher—”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Sorry, Professor.”

As Peter crouches on the dirty floor behind a gigantic flowerpot, he realises that as long as Sprout and Snape are distracted, the path to the mandrake room lies clear. And he knows that this is the kind of chance he dreams about getting, the kind of opportunity only characters in films get, ones wearing red capes or tuxedos while their theme music swells heroically.

This is his Hero Moment.

 _Oh bollocks_ , he thinks, and hurls himself into the open.

He sees Sprout and Snape, they aren’t looking this way but in a split second they might be and he goes for it, the half-run of five metres takes a thousand years but then he’s there and nothing’s happened yet, he can still hear Sprout telling off James and Sirius over the sound of the rain on the greenhouse roof, and he grabs the knob and prays to any god he can think of that the door doesn’t creak— and then he’s on the other side, looking at rows and rows of little potted mandrake plants.

He’s giddy with his success. Peter takes a pair of scissors from a shelf by the door and goes from pot to pot, snipping a stem or two from each one, making sure not to take enough to be noticeable from any individual plant, filling his pockets with them. He’s so pleased with himself that it takes him a while to realise the flaw in his plan.

“Oh shite,” he whispers to himself. “How do I get out?”

He tries waiting it out, but it’s no use: he hears Snape leave after a minute or two, but Sprout doesn’t seem to go with him. Peter risks cracking the door a hair. He sees her, hard at work weeding a large number of something tentacled and faintly humming, and feels his heart, so light before, drop into his stomach. Who knows how long she’s going to be in there? What if he waits in here for hours and hours, only to have her see him when she comes to lock up? He turns away from the door and casts a desperate look around the small room. There’s only the one door, with no exit to outside.

There is, however, one window.

First he tries sticking one leg out and climbing over sideways, but that doesn’t work. Eventually he resigns himself to shoving his body through headfirst, but even that’s harder than he expected. His head and shoulders poke out into freedom, but the rest of him isn’t budging. He wonders which would be worse if Professor Sprout found him right now: the scolding for trespassing and stealing, or the humiliation of being discovered stuck halfway out a window.

With a resigned thought of _James Bond never had to do this_ , Peter heaves with all his might, feels himself tumble free, and lands with a wet  _thump_ on the muddy ground. 

 

***

 

They take the stairs two at a time, bounding for the seventh floor where, James hopes to Merlin, Peter will be waiting at the rendezvous point.

“See, this is why we’ve got a rendezvous point,” he says to Sirius, panting.

“We’ve got a rendezvous point because you made it up that time you wouldn’t admit you’d forgotten the password and gotten locked out of Gryffindor Tower,” Sirius says. “Which would make much more sense as a rendezvous point, by the way.”

“Where’s your sense of drama?”

“Apparently not as heightened as yours.”

“Good Godric, is that saying something.”

“Let’s just hope Pete hid himself well enough,” Sirius says. “We haven’t got time for detention, with all that’s going on.”

They turn onto the seventh floor corridor and take it at a run. As they approach the statue of Barnabas the Barmy, they see that there’s already somebody waiting there.

 

***

 

Peter sprints all the way back up to the castle, muddy and wet and breathless with victory, so by the time he gets up to the seventh floor he’s the normal kind of breathless as well. He makes the turn onto the corridor, spots the statue at the other end, and pulls a fistful of leafy mandrake stems out of his pocket. He holds them over his head, running for the statue and cheering.

“I got them, I got them!” he cries. “I made a run for it and— oh.”

He stops short at the feet of Barnabas the Barmy, who looks confused as always. On the other side of the statue are not just Sirius and James, who are both looking rather solemn, but Remus. Peter lowers his hand, still full of mandrake.

Remus turns to him, smiling. “Ah,” he says, all casual, “Mr Iscariot. Thanks for joining us.”

Peter very much would like to run away, but it wouldn’t work. He swallows and looks at his shoes. “At least Judas got silver,” he mumbles. “I got leaves.”

“I never understand them when they talk,” James says.

“How you find us?” Peter asks.

“I went to the rendezvous point.”

“How’d you know about the rendezvous point?” James says, shocked.

Remus sighs. “James, we’ve only ever had one.”

“Oh.”

“Is anyone,” Remus says, and this time there’s just the smallest bit of flint to his voice and it’s scary as anything, “going to tell me what’s going on?”

No one says anything. James and Sirius stand hard-faced, eyes anywhere but Remus, who goes on: “I don’t know what you lot are keeping from me, and I don’t know why, but whatever it is you’ve got me properly worried.”

James somehow has the nerve to pipe up, “We’re not keeping anything—”

But Remus silences him with a look.

“I thought we decided two years ago,” he says, “when you lot found out I was lying to you, that keeping secrets from your friends was disloyal.”

He hasn’t raised his voice, his tone is even as it ever is, but Peter watches as James’ and Sirius’ gazes drop to the floor. Peter can’t remember seeing shame on either of them, so he isn’t sure if he could recognise it, but he thinks this might be it.

Remus looks Peter straight in the eye. “You’ll tell me, won’t you?”

Over Remus’ shoulder he sees James and Sirius staring at him, and James is shaking his head and Sirius is frowning like he might actually punch him if he tells, but he can’t do it, he can’t handle it, the panic and the pressure boil up inside of him and burst out on, “We— we’re, we’re doing the Animagus thing.”

Seeing James’ and Sirius’ faces fall and Remus’ go entirely blank, Peter feels a lot less like James Bond. The three of them can do nothing but wait, and watch as Remus clutches a handful of his own hair and says nothing at all.

James says, “Remus?”

He doesn’t move. When he finally says something, it’s quiet, and he isn’t looking at any of them:

“I can’t stop you, can I?”

James and Sirius shake their heads.

Peter stays frozen. This isn’t at all what he wanted; this was supposed to make Remus _happy_ , that was the plan all along, but he doesn’t look happy now _._ No, he looks scared and helpless, and he’s still tugging at a fistful of his hair like he’d tear it out. He looks a bit manic.

“Alright,” Remus finally says. He drops his hand and looks at them. “How far are you?”

James looks confused. “What?”

“How much have you gotten done?” he says. “I’m helping you, of course.”

“Help us?” says Sirius.

“Yes, obviously.” Suddenly Remus’ tone is businesslike. “If you’re going to do something this utterly stupid, you’re going to need all the help you can get. I’d prefer it that you three didn’t die, I’ve grown accustomed to you by now.”

Peter swears he can hear the exact moment that the three of them stop holding their breaths. “Oh thank Merlin,” says James. “It was getting too hard, coming up with ways to get rid of you.”

Sirius jabs him in the side with his elbow. “Only because you’re the least sneaky person to ever live.”

“Hey, I am _extremely_ sneaky, okay, where would you lot be without me? In the gutter, that’s where.”

“We’re there anyway, mate,” says Sirius. “Pete, you’ve got the stems?”

 

***

 


	7. old new borrowed and blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t think you’d try so hard to act like you hated somebody you fancied, though. I can’t imagine you going to the trouble.”
> 
> “Nah, I wouldn’t."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update; my free time this month's been nonexistent. Should be getting some more after this week, thankfully. Thanks for reading!

  


***

   


They could’ve brewed the potion anywhere secluded and outdoors, but it was Sirius’ idea to go to the top of the Astronomy Tower. Peter does appreciate his flair for the dramatic.

“And the books say to dice them?” Remus says.

It’s quite spectacular up here, Peter thinks. He can’t keep from craning his head up, even if it makes him dizzy. The rain from earlier dissolved, only evidenced now by the wet stone they sit on and the sweet, ozone-washed breeze. The sky’s a faded blue, orange light spilling over the mountains far away. A phantom sliver of moon hangs in the blue, early, not quite here, here-and-not.

“Yes,” James answers.

“Not chopped or crushed?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

Rolling his eyes, James tips the diced mandrake stems into the cauldron. “Nah, just guessing. I love brewing dangerous human transfiguration potions without reading the directions.”

“Just a little something we tossed together,” Sirius adds. “Had the stuff lying about. Didn’t fuss much.”

“It’s not funny,” Remus says. He stares down at the enormous old book in his lap, brow furrowed. “It says if you charm it properly the potion’ll turn ‘pearlescent’, that’s the only way you’ll know you haven’t done something wrong.”

“Relax,” says James. He gives the heavily steaming potion a stir. “We haven’t even said the incantations yet and it’s already getting lighter.”

Sirius holds his hair back, leans in over the cauldron, peers in. “So we just say the spell over it and wait until it turns white? Easy.”

“‘Pearlescent’. It’s different.”

“It’s white.”

“It’s not!” Remus snaps. His voice cracks. “White is white, but pearls are _off-_ white, and they— they’ve got, y’know, they’ve got a _sheen_ , that’s what ‘pearlescent’ means and it isn’t white, white would be wrong, alright?”

Sirius raises his eyebrows.

James turns to Sirius, sombre-faced, and stage whispers, “ _It’s got a sheen_.”

“It’s not funny!” Remus yelps. “The colour is the one and only indicator of whether or not you’ve made a mistake and cooked up something poisonous, or— or something that’ll turn you into fruit bats, or formless human lumps—”

“Potter’s doing alright as a formless human lump,” Sirius chimes in.

“—so since apparently I’m the only one who appreciates the risk here, that potion had better have a bloody _sheen_ ,” Remus goes on, “or I’ll chuck it over the side of the tower, alright?”

“Chuck you over the side of the tower if you don’t chill out,” James says, still poking at the bubbling potion with the stirring rod. “And then where will we be, eh?”

“Stop worrying,” Sirius tells Remus. “This isn’t even the real deal yet, is it? Just preliminary stuff.”

“I don’t know how that’s supposed to make me _stop_ worrying.”

It turns out that Sirius had a point: even Peter, who was scared stiff that he’d mess up, finds the ritual itself a bit anticlimactic. The three of them point their wands at the potion, read out the terrifyingly complex, page-long incantation from the book (stopping and starting at different times, Peter’s heart rushing to his throat for the half second he thinks he’s mixed up _muto_ and _mutus_ ), and watch the cauldron send up a column of thick white smoke.

When it clears, the potion is— well—

“ _Pearlescent_ ,” Sirius says, grinning. “Dig that, Mr Cynic.”

Peter gives Remus a playful nudge. “Ye of little faith.” He finds it much easier to joke that it’s done.

Remus is still tense. “Remember you don’t drink this one, that’s not until—”

“Sheesh, Lupin, we know,” James drawls. “We just sniff it.”

“You breathe it in, you don’t _sn—_ ”

James is already leaning in over the cauldron, steam fogging his glasses. “Alright, lads, c’mon.”

Peter leans in, Sirius at his side, until the steam is hot on his face. It doesn’t smell like anything. He feels stupid. He takes in several long breaths, then several more.

Finally, Remus’ voice: “And…that’s one minute. Should do it.”

They all sit back down. Peter continues to feel stupid.

“I don’t feel any different,” he says.

“You aren’t supposed to,” says Remus. “This is only a first step, it’s changing your molecular structure.”

“You’d think I’d feel that,” Peter says.

James holds his hands up in front of his face. “I reckon my fingers feel a bit numb. That’s something, right?”

“Think your molecules are broken, mate,” says Sirius.

“So,” Peter says, “did…did it work?”

There’s a brief stretch of silence.

“It seems so,” Remus says.

Peter still can’t grasp it. He asks, just to make sure.

“So, we’ve done it, then? We’ve started?”

James slings an arm around Remus’ shoulders. He asks, “Have we, naysayer?”

Peter can’t parse the look on Remus’ face. He answers slowly, like he’s picking his words with care: “You aren’t dead.”

Sirius gives a shout of laughter. “We’ll take it!”

James joins in laughing. Sirius bounds to his feet, hauling James up with him, and laughs and whoops and punches the air. James shouts too, clinging to Sirius with one hand while the other’s lifted in triumph. And then Peter’s pulled to his feet and he’s laughing at nothing too, and maybe the potion did drive them a bit mad after all because they hold on to each other and shout for no reason at all and hurl their voices against the huge evening sky, a part of themselves bouncing around in the great beyond, whoops sent up like howls to the moon.

“Lads.” James lets go of Peter and Sirius, swipes a hand through his hair, catches his breath. “Something I wanted to say to you lot. You especially, Remus.”

He’s still sitting. “Yes?”

“I feel bad,” James says. “Carrying on lying to you like that. It was my idea and I feel right bloody awful about it.” His expression is serious, uncharacteristically so. It might be the first time Peter’s seen it. “I’m sorry.”

Remus nods. “Thank you.”

“It’s disloyal, keeping stuff from each other,” he goes on. “And, and dishonourable, and not at all how friends should act and I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me for it.”

“Of course I do.”

“I have a proposition,” James announces, and Peter knows that it’s normally at this point that Sirius would riff back _Merlin help us_ or _can you even spell proposition_ or the like, but a solemn moment has fallen. “To keep this sort of thing from happening again.”

“What?” Peter says.

“I propose that we all promise— no, vow. No, take an oath. No—” He cuts off, looks at Sirius. “Which’s better, ‘vow’ or ‘oath’?”

Sirius considers. “Oath’s a weird word,” he decides. “I like it.”

“Agreed. An oath, then.”

Remus stands up. “Of what sort?”

“No more secrets,” James says. His face is all earnestness in the way his face is so good at being, was built to be. For a lot of years it’s that expression that’ll be Peter’s essential image of him, the picture that springs to mind at the word _James_. “Not from each other, anyway. We can lie to other people as much as we like, that’s not a problem.”

“Bit necessary, that,” Remus says.

“Yeah. But between the four of us— we can’t keep secrets. We’ve got to trust each other.”

They stand in a circle, the sky dimmer than it was a minute ago, looking at each other. Peter can’t tell who’s supposed to talk first, but he knows it isn’t him.

Sirius talks first. “Sounds good to me.”

“Sure, yeah, let’s do it,” Peter says.

They look at Remus.

“Sure,” he says.

“Excellent! Er.” James looks around. “How d’you do an oath?”

With an air of pure delight and a hand shooting for his wand, Sirius cries, “Blood pact!”

Remus catches him smoothly by the wrist. “No.”

“They used to swear on swords,” James says. “Really wish I had a sword right now.”

“You always wish you had a sword.”

“Yeah, but now especially.”

“Maybe,” Peter says, “maybe we just say some words? And repeat them?”

Sirius raises his eyebrows. “Your idea, Potter. Name the oath.”

“Right.” James squares his shoulders, puts up his right hand. “Raise your wand hand— go on—”

They do. Sirius smacks Remus accidentally.

“—and repeat after me. ‘No more secrets.’”

They chorus back: “No more secrets.”

There’s a brief, expectant pause.

“Is that it?” Sirius asks.

“Simpler’s better, don’t you think?”

“Gets to the point well enough.”

Putting his hand down, James goes to pack up their potion things. “Besides, making it short keeps us honest.” He picks up the cauldron and crosses for the crenelated wall.

“How’s it do that?” Peter asks.

“Easy to remember.” He peers over the wall. As James dumps the cauldronful of pearlescent potion off the top of the tower he says, “Can’t say we forgot what it was, can we?” 

He’s right about that.

   


***

   


Remus hasn’t slept so well lately. It started right after he found out about his friends' idiotic, suicidal scheme and went ahead and helped them with it. Funny coincidence, that.

He made the decision in the moment, standing there in the corridor facing off with the stubborn, unapologetic natural force of James-and-Sirius, determined to help him whether Remus wants them to or not. Well, he can't stop them, he thought. Might as well help. What else could he have done? 

_You could’ve fought harder_ , answers a voice in his mind. _You could've fought at all._

But what good would it have done? Would they just have kept on doing it in secret, even if he told them to stop? And wouldn't they be in even more danger, the efforts of keeping it from Remus making them cut corners, make stupid mistakes?

The voice won't have it. _You could've tried_ , it says. _You're good at making up excuses for your own cowardice, aren't you?_

Remus lies in bed in the dark and the guilt is there with him, a physical weight pressing down. There's no good ending here, he knows. They get caught, or they die in the attempt— that's it, those are the options, only Sirius and James are arrogant enough to think a few unsupervised teenagers could succeed in one of the most complex endeavours in all of magical study.

Expulsion or death. That's where Remus' three best friends are headed, and it’s his fault. God, why'd Dumbledore ever let him in? What would Mum say?

What would Dad say?

"I didn't...I wouldn't..."

Remus startles. It's been a while since he’s caught Sirius sleeptalking. Would've been last term sometime. Well, no harm there: not as if Remus will be sleeping tonight anyway.

The next bed over, Sirius’ voice gets louder, more urgent: “I wouldn't, I wouldn't, you've got it wrong-- no, no no no--"

Remus sits up. It's been even longer since he caught Sirius mid-nightmare, and he can’t help thinking that it doesn’t bode well. He rolls out of bed, pulls the curtains away from Sirius' four-poster, shakes him awake.

His eyes blink open under mussed black hair and land on Remus. Sirius exhales, heavy and hoarse, on, “Sorry.”

“Sounded bad. Remember anything?"

"No, never do. But..." Sirius furrows his brow, shakes his head as if to clear it. "Feel as though I've had it before. Dunno.”

"The bleeding one?"

"Maybe. I dunno.”

Remus reaches over and tugs his own pillow off his bed. "Budge up," he says.

Suddenly Sirius is very awake indeed. He sits bolt upright in bed, scoots across the mattress until he tumbles off the other side and lands unsteadily on his feet. "It's fine, I'll-- I need a walk. I’ll walk it off.”

"Alright," Remus says, taken aback. "Take the Cloak, then."

"Nah, I'll just go in the common room."

"You're gonna take a walk in the common room?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll just..."

Sirius crosses the dark dormitory and into the stairwell. He doesn’t stop the door from landing heavily behind him. It shuts too loudly in the sleepy quiet; from the direction of Peter’s bed Remus hears Tesla wake with a sleepy _mrew_.

He’s left standing there next to Sirius' empty bed, pillow in hand, wondering what the hell that was about.

Is Sirius upset with him? Did he offend him somehow? They aren't keeping secrets from each other anymore. If he asked Sirius what was wrong he’d tell him, wouldn't he?

Remus shakes himself. It's nothing. They're getting too old to do this dumb thing they did when they were eleven and Sirius knows it, that’s all it was. Embarrassing that Remus even tried. It’d be weird, wouldn’t it? Remus will be fourteen in February; things are different now. They aren't little kids anymore.

He goes back to bed but doesn't sleep.

  


***

  


They don’t _really_ make all the doors disappear. Even for the annual Hallowe'en prank that’s a tall order: Vanishment is N.E.W.T. level. No, they just put glamours over every door in the school to make them blend perfectly into their surrounding walls. It takes all night and is _absolutely_ worth it.

After lessons are done for the day— delayed an hour or so by professors and prefects scurrying around, lifting glamours and trying to remember where classroom doors used to be— James, Peter, and Remus trudge right up to the dormitory to nap until dinner. Sirius takes the opportunity to slip away unnoticed to the Owlery.

He doesn’t know why he keeps doing this. It’s stupid and pointless. She hasn’t answered the first three letters he’s sent; what is he expecting will happen with the fourth?

He crosses the threshold of the big, drafty tower room and sees he’s not alone, red hair standing out among the brown and stone and dust of the place. She’s got her back to him, looking down at something in her hands.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Lily jumps and turns. “Oh. Hi.”

It’s been a long time since they talked, or acknowledged each other at all. It’s funny how pretending to not be friends with somebody feels a lot like not being friends with them.

He walks over to her. “What’ve you got there?”

“Oh. Er.” She shows it to him. It’s a Muggle envelope. “Stamp and everything. I, er, I thought…” She gives a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Thought I might trick her into reading it for once if it looks normal and not freakish. Never mind that an owl would be dropping it off…”

In neat cursive writing in the lower left, the white paper envelope reads:

_Miss Petunia Evans_

_12 Chapel Road_

_North Muskham-on-Trent_

_Nottinghamshire_

   


“‘North Muskham’,” Sirius reads. “Where’s that?”

“Nowhere at all,” Lily answers, lightly. “Not much there. Some factories.”

“Huh.”

She gives him an odd, nervous look. “Sev and I get to leave. He reckons Petunia’s jealous.”

“Is she?”

She looks at the envelope some more with a thoughtful expression on her face, creasing the skin between her eyebrows. Eventually she says, “It’s complicated,” and turns to the nearest owl, a fluffy tawny that snaps the envelope obligingly in its beak.

They watch it flutter out of one of the many glassless windows. Then she asks, “Do you hear from Regulus much?”

He snorts. “We haven’t made eye contact since he got here.”

“You haven’t even tried to talk to him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Is it really?”

He considers. “Nah.”

“Who’re you writing?” Lily asks.

Sirius looks down at the rolled parchment in his hand as if he’d forgotten about it. “My cousin.”

“I didn’t think you liked anybody in your family.”

“She’s the only decent one,” he says. “And it shows— she got disowned a couple of years ago.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I only found out about it over the summer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, it, er.” He turns to pick an owl. Sirius addresses the large barn owl rather than Lily while he ties the letter to its leg: “It was pretty bad.”

“I can imagine. Well, not really. But I can sympathize.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s nice that you still write to her.”

“But that’s the thing.” He carries the owl over to the window, lets it go. “She hasn’t answered any of them. I’ve sent her three already since we got back.”

“Oh,” Lily says. “Do you know for sure she’s getting them?”

“I mean, I’ve got no idea where she is. But usually owls can find people, can’t they? I dunno.” He leans back against the stone windowsill, arms crossed, and asks a question that’s been on his mind for a couple of months: “D’you think I’m stupid to keep sending them? What do I think the fourth’s going to do that the first three didn’t?”

Lily shrugs. “I’ve sent Tuney a letter every week since first year,” she says. “She’s never answered a single one. If you’re stupid, I’m absolutely delusional.”

Sirius nods. “Both of us, probably. We’re both delusional.”

“Probably,” she says, smiling a bit. Then she turns for the door. “See you later.”

“Yeah, see you,” Sirius says, sincerely doubting it.

But before she’s gotten halfway across the room she turns again and looks at him. “Are you lot up to something?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Like what?”

“Sev says the four of you skipped the Hogsmeade trip,” she says. “He said you were sneaking round in the greenhouses.”

Anger flares up in him, hot in his throat. “He skipped it too, the slimy little creep! What’s it to him if we— nosy, sneaking—”

“Forget I mentioned it,” Lily snaps, and her back is to him. Then she’s gone.

  


***

  


While having Remus in on the plan definitely makes all of their lives easier (they can plan in broad daylight now, for longer than a minute at a time), it doesn’t make sitting in the library poring over Transfiguration theory any less boring. But for about six weeks now they haven’t done much of anything else.

“I think,” says Remus, “that we’re lucky we’ve a Hogsmeade trip this weekend. I don’t know how much more we can get from these same books— the bookshop there might have something a bit easier.”

Sirius snorts. “Reckon we’ll find a copy of _A Beginner’s Guide to Human Transfiguration_?”

“Look, all we need is something to help bridge the gap.”

“Could do with a dictionary,” Peter says. “Might help me understand what half of these words mean.”

James rolls his eyes. “The point of Hogsmeade isn’t _books_. It’s Zonko’s and Honeydukes, everybody knows that. We skipped the first one, we aren’t missing out again.”

“We’d still have time for other stuff,” Peter says.

“Yeah, it wouldn’t take all day,” Remus agrees. “Besides, I told Jeanette I would meet with her at the Three Broomsticks, so we’ll be done by then.”

James nearly upends his ink pot. “You _what_?”

“She asked if I could meet her there and I said I would,” Remus says. “I expect she wants to talk about the Arithmancy essay, though I can’t imagine why, she’s better at it than I am.”

Loud enough that they might just get kicked out of the library, James bursts out laughing. “Because she asked you on a _date_ , that’s why!”

“She— what? Is that what she did?”

“Yes, you hopeless weirdo, that’s what she did!” James crows. He’s beside himself. “And you said yes!”

“Oh.” Remus nods, smiles. “Alright then.”

Sirius feels quite interested in his book all of a sudden. He goes back to reading with as much focus as he can muster, but he hears James anyway:

“How are you the first one of us to get a girl? Pete’s the oldest, Black’s the looker, and I’m the lady’s man.”

Peter snorts, and James turns to him with genuine confusion. “What? I am, I thought we decided that?”

“What’s that make me?” Remus asks.

“You’re the sensible one.”

Peter looks at James like he’s got three heads. “Have you _met_ Remus?”

“The relatively sensible one, then.”

“I’m also the one who’s got a date. So there.”

There’s a sentence that Sirius has read about five times now. It’s very interesting. He reads it again.

“Fine, we can look for books there, but I don’t think we’re gonna get a better selection than we do here. I—” James cuts off, staring with sudden urgency over Sirius’ shoulder.

Sirius turns and sees nothing but a bookshelf. Before he can ask, James holds up a hand to shush them. He stands slowly, draws his wand, and creeps around their table toward the edge of the bookshelf. Then, sharp and quick, he throws himself around the corner.

“What’re you up to there, Snivelly?”

“Getting a book. Just because you can’t read, Potter, doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t allowed.”

Sirius has barely begun to stand when Remus grabs him by the wrist, darting him a silent warning with his eyes. Grudgingly, he sits.

“Awfully _convenient_ spot for your book to be, isn’t it? Big library, this one.”

“I didn’t realise you owned every space you and your clever friends set foot in.”

He hears James step forward and imagines him pointing his wand right in Snape’s greasy face. “Think you’d better be going.”

They watch Snape emerge from the bookshelf, skulking away with a murderous look on his face. As soon as he’s gone Sirius growls, “Can I hex him? I want to hex him.”

“Can’t,” James answers, dropping into his chair. “We’ve too much to do. No time for detention this week.”

Sirius crosses his arms. As if he weren’t already in a bad mood, now he’s not even allowed to hex Snape. “What’s this world coming to?”

“What did I tell you?” James says to Remus. “He was clearly spying on us!”

But Remus only shrugs. “I think he was just getting a book.”

“Are you kidding? That the third time I’ve caught him lurking! He’s been eavesdropping for weeks, ever since the thing in the greenhouse. He’s trying to work out what we’re up to!”

Sirius stares off in the direction Snape left and really, really wants to track him down and hex him into jelly. “Trying to get us expelled, more like. Wouldn’t that just be the proudest moment of his stupid life…”

“He’s a dirty sneak, Remus, surely you see that?” says James.

Remus makes a noncommittal noise and goes back to his book.

  


***

  


“Buck up, lads,” says James. “At least Zonko’s will be fun.”

Sirius was right, and the Hogsmeade bookshop had nothing particularly useful to offer them. The four of them trudge down the bustling High Street in the snow, windswept and disheartened.

Sirius nods. “We’ve got to replenish our stores anyway— I used our last Dungbomb two weeks ago.”

They weave their way toward the shop but Remus stops, looking the other direction.

“I’ll meet you lot there later, shall I?”

James grins. “Oooh, got your date, have you?”

“Yes I have and you don’t, so don’t look so smug.”

James continues to look smug. He takes him by both shoulders like a proud mum and says, “Ah, look at him, combed his hair and everything. What a perfect gentleman.”

“I did, yes, because I was not born in a barn.” He eyes James’ hair, blown on end by the icy wind, with a quirked eyebrow. “Like some people.”

Peter and Sirius laugh; James makes a face and gives him a shove. “Get on with you then, Prince Charming.”

After Remus strolls off toward the Three Broomsticks the other three don’t much know what to do with themselves. It seems strange to do fun Hogsmeade things with one of their number missing.

“Surely we aren’t this co-dependent,” James says with frustration.

“We could just go for a walk,” suggests Peter.

James shrugs and looks to Sirius. “What d’you think, Black?”

“Er, sure.” An idea is coming to him. And it’s a horrible idea. But… “You know, you lot go on, I have something I’ve got to do at the post office.”

“What?” asks James.

“Brianna moved,” he invents. “I’ve got to tell them her new address so I can send her letters still. So they can switch it to Muggle post, and all.”

“Yeah, alright,” says James. “Meet you at Zonko’s later, then.”

As soon as they’re gone from sight Sirius turns the other way and goes back up the High Street, pulling his cloak closer around him.

This is a bad idea. It’s enough of a bad idea that even _he_ knows it’s a bad idea. It’s a supremely not-on thing to do and he’d be properly brassed off if somebody did it to him. But Sirius pushes open the heavy wooden door of the Three Broomsticks and goes in anyway.

It’s as warm and smokey inside, and so packed there’s hardly room to move between tables. Sirius reckons it’d be easy to blend in and observe…Not spy, he tells himself firmly. No, it’s not spying, because he won’t stay long. He’ll just pop in, find Remus and Jeanette, hang back for a moment and…observe. He won’t even listen to what they’re saying, just take a quick look at the situation— body language, he thinks, yes, that says a lot— and get out.

It’s not spying.

The thing about trying to go unnoticed is that it makes you much more observant than usual, especially of other people who are likewise trying to stay out of sight. Sirius learns this when his eye catches on someone, someone who’s squashed into the corner of a booth that’s partially obscured by a large potted plant and the haze from a nearby table of chain-smoking old witches.

Sirius comes closer. He’s hunched over a notebook, his hair falling in his face, but there’s no mistaking him.

He squints. “Regulus?”

Regulus looks up, eyes wide. “Oh. Hi.”

Casting a quick glance around, Sirius slides into the empty booth across from him and hisses, “What’re you doing here? You’re a first year!”

He ducks back over his notebook. It’s one of the one’s he’s always filling with drawings, Sirius sees. “None of your business.”

Sirius could kill him. “Regulus Arcturus, if you don’t tell me how you pulled this off I’m telling Mum and Dad.”

“I’ve got friends, alright?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I mean my friends got me in, so go away.”

“If you think I’m bluffing about telling, you’ve got another—”

“Fine.” Regulus slaps his quill down on the table. “There’s a secret passageway in Hogwarts, a lot of ’em, but—”

“ _Secret passageways?_ Wh—”

“—but I’m not telling you where they are, so you’ll just have to go round poking at statues until you find them yourself.”

Sirius crosses his arms. He’s irritated that Regulus won’t just tell him (what even the point of brothers, then?) but he files away ‘poking at statues’ for later. This will make James’ day; this’ll make James’ whole bloody _year_. “These friends of yours showed them to you, did they?” Sirius asks.

“Yeah, and they’re going to be back any minute, so you should leave.”

“I’ve seen who you hang round,” Sirius says. “They don’t scare me.”

“Yeah, ’cause they aren’t scary. They’re nice.”

“‘Nice’?” Sirius laughs. “I wouldn’t call slithery pureblood slime like Nott or Pucey ‘nice’. Or Goyle, or that toerag Aubrey, or— eurgh, Carrow.”

“They _are_ ,” Regulus says. “Much nicer than your friends, anyway. Everett said he’d never even spoken to your lot when you and that blood traitor Potter hexed him out of nowhere—”

It takes Sirius a second to remember who ‘Everett’ is before he cuts in: “Flint? That was a laugh, that was nothing—”

“Wasn’t a laugh to him,” says Regulus, and Sirius hasn’t seen his little brother angry a lot, or at least he’s been too small for it to seem real, “was it? He was in the hospital wing for three days, just because you two wanted a laugh!”

“Nott and Carrow are sixth year, anyway,” Sirius says. “What are they doing hanging round an eleven year old?”

“I don’t know why it’s so surprising that I’ve got friends!”

“Some friends they are,” Sirius says. “That’s the lot with Avery; I heard he kills rabbits and things for fun. And of course darling Snivellus, because he’s such a charmer.”

“You and Potter are bullies, that’s all you are! Severus is a bit weird and nobody really likes him but that Mudblood girl, but he didn’t do anything wrong for you two to be picking on him every day. He’s harmless, and you lot are always—”

Sirius laughs again, short and sharp. Snape, harmless? “He’s always been up to his eyes in the Dark Arts! He got off the train knowing more curses than any of the seventh years, I think ‘didn’t do anything wrong’ is a bit—”

“They’re my friends,” Regulus says firmly. “They hang round me because they like me, alright? They even like my drawings, they always ask to see them, they think they’re cool.”

“Your drawings _are_ cool, you haven't got to hang round creepy gits to hear that.”

Regulus ignores him and keeps rambling. “Rabastan liked this one I did so much that he had me copy it onto his bag, and then once he had it everybody else wanted it.” Tentative pride pulls at his smile. He flips a page in his notebook and pushes it toward Sirius. “Rabastan’s the coolest boy in his year and he said my drawing was wicked— here, look.”

Sirius looks at it and blinks. “Hang on. I’ve seen this.”

“A lot of people had me put it—”

“Don’t be stupid, I don’t pay them any attention.” But the design is familiar. It’s as bizarre and painstakingly detailed as all the stuff Regulus makes: a snake coming out of a skull, bordered by an intricate weave of snakes and stars. “Yeah, I saw it in the fourth floor bathroom, somebody’s carved it on a wall in there,” Sirius says. “I figured it was some Slytherin thing.”

Regulus’ smile wobbles like he’s trying to look modest but failing. “I didn’t know that. See? They like me, they think I’m cool, Hector Rosier said there’s a lot I can ‘contribute’ to—” He stumbles. “To the stuff they do.”

“So there _is_ stuff they do?”

Regulus huffs, takes his notebook back, flips the page, and scribbles irritably. “Not your business.”

“You can tell me, I’m your brother.”

“They told me specifically not to tell you.”

“Come on, we both know I have blackmail material,” Sirius retorts with a wave of his hand at the pub around them. “I hate writing Mum and Dad, but I won’t hesitate if I think young Master Reg is misbehaving…”

“If you must know,” Regulus mumbles into his notebook, “there’s this sort of club that they’re a part of, an activist society students can be in, and they think I’d be a good fit for it.”

“‘Activist’?” Sirius scoffs. “What good would you be in a club like that? You’re a baby.”

“Usually it’s for older kids but they say I’m old for my age,” he answers, glaring at Sirius. “The bloke who started the group talks a lot about how young people should be more involved, and, y’know, so many of them don’t care about changing the world but we should encourage—”

Sirius rolls his eyes so hard he nearly hurts himself. “I suppose you’ve met this bloke, then?”

“No, but Hector Rosier’s brother Evan has— he graduated last year— and he says he’s great, really smart, with loads of neat ideas. He tells them to Hector and then Hector tells us all about it.”

“Ideas? Like what?”

Finally Regulus puts aside his drawing and looks up at Sirius, bright-eyed. “Like, how wizards shouldn’t have to hide anymore. Wizards have been oppressed for centuries and it’s limiting us. If we didn’t have Muggles persecuting us all the time and holding us back we could do anything; we could live forever if we wanted to—”

“‘Live forever’? That’s the dumbest thing I have _ever_ heard, Reg.”

“No, it’s not!” Regulus says, his words tumbling out faster and faster now. “It’s not, because this man, the one who started it, he’s immortal, he really is. He didn’t let himself be pushed around by Muggles, so his powers could reach their, their full potential and now he’ll never die, and the rest of us can’t, we— we can’t get to our full potential unless we fight back!”

“‘Fight back’?” Sirius’ first instinct is to make fun of Regulus some more for how bloody stupid this all sounds, but there’s a stirring in the back of his brain. It’s as though he’s trying to remember something; he can’t tell what. And he thinks he feels a bit queasy. “What’re you on about?”

“Against the Muggles, when they fight us, we’ve got to fight back!” Regulus continues. “Hector said that they arrested some wizards yesterday for fighting with some Muggles, but the Ministry doesn’t understand that it— it was self-defense, you know? The people, the Muggles they were fighting, they lived in this building called a church and they hated magic— they had to fight back, yeah?”

And then it springs back to Sirius’ memory, unprompted: Malcolm on the couch in the shop, smoking lazily. _They recruit young_ , he said. _They always do_.

And it fills Sirius with cold unease in a way that reminds him of the last time he felt like that, when he found a tiny story in the way back of the _Daily Prophet_ with the words _terrorist involvement_ and he doesn’t know why his mind connects the two besides the way they both make him feel slightly sick but before he can think of any questions to ask, Regulus’ friends return.

It’s a group of six or seven Slytherins. He recognises Avery and Rookwood from his year and a sixth year he thinks might be Rosier. They’re all carrying drinks and glaring at Sirius.

Rookwood narrows his eyes. “Black,” he says.

Sirius points at himself, and then at Regulus. “Sorry, did you mean _me_ , or—?”

“Get out.”

Sirius takes his sweet time getting to his feet. He lifts his hands in theatrical surrender. “So sorry, lads. Far be it from me to interrupt the bridge club meeting.”

“Think you’re so funny?” Rosier sneers. “Keep laughing, see where it gets you.”

Sirius draws his wand. “Sure hope that wasn’t a threat. I’m running out of curses to try on you and your mates and I wouldn’t have it get out I’m uncreative.”

At his elbow, Regulus hisses, “ _Sirius_.”

Sirius and Rosier glare at each other for another moment.

Finally, Sirius shrugs. For once in his life he doesn’t feel like hexing somebody. “Eh, not worth it.” He stuffs his wand back into his pocket, gets out from behind the table, and gives Regulus a short wave. “Check you later, little brother.”

Forgetting what he was there to do in the first place, he pushes his way toward the door.

  


***

  


Remus sits at a table in the crowded, smoky pub and thinks that maybe it was for the best that he didn’t know it was a date when he said yes. His feelings of guilt can be less pronounced this way.

Theoretically.

It can’t have been ethical, accepting when she doesn’t know. It’s not as though it’s a commitment or anything— they’ll drink butterbeer and talk about lessons, hardly a big deal— but it’s the principle of it, isn’t it? Jeanette doesn’t know what she asked out.

Everything has a way of being high stakes in his situation, Remus reflects. It’s no big deal what they’re doing, sure. But if it ever, god forbid, got out what he is, having gone on a single date with a werewolf when she was thirteen is enough to ruin Jeanette’s reputation, whether she knew it or not. He’s put that on her now and she had no say in the matter.

God, Remus is going to hell for so many reasons these days.

James' _oath_ doesn't help. For the past month and a half Remus hasn't stopped turning himself over and over about what constitutes a 'secret'. Is he required to tell his friends that this mad idea of theirs is eating him from the inside with guilt? They probably already know that. When does something that’s not said become a ‘secret'? There are plenty of things Remus doesn't say. He's never considered them secretive, though; they simply aren’t worth the breath.

And there are some things— well, one or two— well, one— that he doesn't even think about, doesn't allow to take up space in his conscious mind, because what’s the point? Because something like… something like _that_ , it isn't relevant at all to anything. Even if Remus were to allow himself to acknowledge it, he would never, ever, _ever_ act on it, so why would it count at all? A secret is only something that could effect another party, right? Something that has some importance? But for a thing about himself that has no importance, a little thing that might as well not exist for all that he thinks about it (and he doesn’t, he doesn’t ever think about it), surely that wouldn't be—

"Remus?"

He blinks. Lily's standing in front of him.

He sits up, arranges his face into a polite _I-wasn't-just-wracked-with-dark-and-guilty-thoughts_ smile he hopes is convincing. "Hello! Having a nice visit?"

"Er, yeah." Her mouth twists into an apologetic smile. "Sorry…Jenny sent me."

He can’t tell if he’s disappointed or relieved.

  


***

  


Sirius hasn’t wandered very far down the street when he double-takes. It’s Remus, leaned up against the wall outside of Zonko’s. Sirius calls his name and he looks up.

“Oh, hi,” he says. “Thought I’d have to wait a long time before one of you came back this way.”

“What about Jeanette?”

“She’s got the flu. Lily caught up with me and let me know.” He shrugs. “Oh well.”

The ‘oh well’ sounds so genuinely unbothered that Sirius feels his heart swell up like an overinflated balloon. But it’s also a sort of hot and melty feeling, though, like it’s not a balloon but a candle with wax that’s pooling over and the dumb conflicting metaphors only make this whole situation even more confusing and frustrating, as if that were a possibility at this point.

Sirius never imagined that people who talk about their hearts ‘feeling’ this way or that actually _mean_ it. He never assumed it was literal: having to do with the organ, like the way you talk about a headache or a diseased kidney. But it turns out that Sirius’ heart is a very literal thing and whether he relates it to a balloon or a candle or whatever stupid metaphor happens to pop into his head it’s definitely in there, hammering away and making his life bloody difficult.

“Where’re the others?” asks Remus.

“They went for a walk. I had a thing to do at the post office.”

They turn left down a side street, also lined with little shops, wandering and chatting. Amending the story a bit (in this version, he runs into him on the street on the way to the post office), Sirius tells Remus about running into Regulus.

He seems intrigued. “Secret passageways,” Remus says. “Out of the school? I suppose it makes sense, since there are so many shortcuts and things that lead to other places inside—”

“Like the one Peter found on our first day, when you shouted at a poltergeist,” Sirius adds, grinning.

“I didn’t shout, I was perfectly polite.”

“That’s funnier, somehow.”

“Anyway,” he continues, managing to roll his eyes only slightly, “I suppose it follows that there would have to be a few that lead outside as well. Did he say anything else? Where they let out, maybe?”

“No,” Sirius says, “but he did say something about ‘tapping on statues’. Dunno what that means but it’s a start.”

“James will be thrilled.” Remus smiles. “He wanted to learn the whole school inside out when we were eleven, he was a man possessed.”

Sirius laughs. “I remember. Now’s his chance, I guess.”

They stop in the middle of the side street. It’s getting emptier the faster the snow falls, just a few straggling parties migrating from shop to shop. “We could split up and track the others down,” Remus suggests. “You look down that way, I’ll check High Street— we’ll meet up at Zonko’s in a half hour, whether we find them or not?”

He nods. “Right on.”

After about twenty-five minutes of ducking into every available doorway he can find, Sirius still has no leads. He’s asked everybody he knows if they’ve seen James and Peter. No one has; mostly they all just look shocked to see him by himself, as if he’s unrecognisable without James attached at the hip. He’s about to call it quits, hope Remus has got them, and go back to the High Street when he takes notice of a spot his eyes had passed over before. The dingy wooden door is so close to the colour of the stone wall he hadn’t even noticed it was there. A weatherbeaten pub sign creaks above the threshold. Figuring he might as well, Sirius approaches it.

It’s dark inside and musty-smelling. The place is nearly empty and the disgruntled-looking barman shoots Sirius a look as if he’d prefer it to stay that way. The only other occupants are a couple of goblins drinking something that’s faintly smoking, someone sitting in the back with a hood over their face and what looks like a covered birdcage on the chair next to them, and, beside the dusty grate—

“Sirius!” calls James. “We were wondering where you’d got to!” He indicates Peter sitting next to him, who doesn’t look like he’s wondering much of anything past when they can leave.

Sirius crosses the small room, sits down, and points at the dusty bottles in front of them. “Is that butterbeer?”

“Probably!” James says merrily. “This place is cozy, innit? Can’t believe more Hogwarts people don’t come in here.”

Sirius quirks an eyebrow. “Cozy.”

“Quieter than the Three Broomsticks, at least. Can actually have a conversation in here.”

Peter darts a desperate look at Sirius. “Are we leaving now?”

“Yeah, I was coming to get you lot. Remus is waiting to meet us at Zonko’s. Jeanette’s got the flu.”

James stands. “Ah, that’s a shame. Well, best be off, I—”

He’s cut off by a soft, accented voice: “Boys? Will you join me for moment?”

It takes Sirius a disorienting handful of seconds to realise where it came from: he turns around and sees that the person with the birdcage has taken down her hood. He startles. Sitting in the back corner of this dingy pub is the most arrestingly, shockingly beautiful person Sirius has ever seen. In the smoky gloom her pearly skin seems to glow, and the thick white-gold hair that streams over her lowered hood and into her lap reminds Sirius of the bundles of unicorn tail hairs he’s seen in apothecary shops. She’s so beautiful, so unearthly, that he finds it rather hard to look at her.

James and Peter, however, don’t seem to be having the same problem. They scramble to their feet so quickly that James upends his chair into the empty fireplace but neither of them appear to care, too busy staring at her to notice. They drop into the empty seats at the woman’s table, leaving Sirius alone and confused.

“Lads?” he says. “What d’you think you’re doing?”

The woman looks up at him with enormous blue eyes and says, insistently in her thick accent, “Come, join your friends.”

That makes him kind of angry. Who does this lady she think she is? “Why should I? Who are you?”

She doesn’t answer, but frowns at him slightly for a moment. Then she laughs, a short, soft sound, before turning back to James and Peter.

“I have offer I think would be most interesting to you boys.” She picks up the birdcage, sets it on the table, and pulls off the cover, revealing a half dozen or so balls of mustard-coloured fur, rolling around and humming faintly.

Now Sirius is _really_ confused. Who is this strange woman peddling puffskeins, and why are James and Peter going along with it? And they’re really going along with it, too: when he crosses over to their table he sees the two of them staring at her with unblinking fascination and nodding. He understands that normal boys do stupid stuff in front of pretty women (he’s best friends with James, he experiences it every day of his life), but this is excessive, this is _weird_.

“How much money do you two have?” asks the woman, and, surely, Sirius thinks, this will snap them out of it. But no, they’re both digging in their pockets.

“What do you two want puffskeins for?” Sirius exclaims. “Tesla would definitely eat yours, Pete! And James, you know your dad’s allergic to everything!”

They don’t acknowledge him. Peter painstakingly counts his pocket change into his hand, and announces, “One Galleon, eleven Sickles, and three Knuts.”

But James pulls out the leather pouch he keeps his money in and pushes it towards her. “Fifty Galleons,” he says.

Sirius is going to lose it. “Potter, that’s all your money! Like, for the whole year! What’re you _doing_?”

The woman smiles serenely, says, “This will do,” takes the pouch, and opens the cage.

  


***

   


That’s how Sirius, Peter, and James end up walking down the High Street, shocked, confused, and in possession of a puffskein.

“I gave her _all_ of it?” James cries for about the ninth time. “You’re sure?”

“You forked over the whole bloody bag, mate.”

“What,” James says, “in the name of Merlin’s lacy negligee just happened?”

Peter shakes his head. “I dunno.” He still looks a little disoriented.

The puffskein, which took to riding on James’ shoulder quite easily, starts humming again. James looks over at it and says, “I guess I’ve got to name it now.”

They all stare at the thing for a moment. Then Peter says, “Carlos.”

“Carlos? Why Carlos?”

“Why not Carlos?”

“Fair point,” says James. “Alright. Carlos.”

Carlos keeps humming.

They find Remus waiting inside Zonko’s as promised, by a display of Fanged Frisbees. “I was thinking we could invest in a couple of these again,” he says as they approach. “I know they’re awfully juvenile, but I—” He looks up and his eyebrows furrow. ”Why’ve you got a puffskein?”

“Remus, this is Carlos,” says James, waving a hand in introduction. “Carlos, this is Remus.”

“Hello, Carlos,” he says courteously. “Where did you come from?”

They explain the whole bizarre occurrence, and by the end of it Remus has furrowed his eyebrows again. “That’s very strange. Do you remember anything else about her?”

James thinks for a moment. “She had an accent. French, probably.”

“It wasn’t French, why do you think everything that’s not English is French?” says Sirius.

“It sounded Russian or something,” Peter tells him.

“I’m telling you, that wasn’t a human woman!” James says. “She did something to our brains.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Speak for yourself. I kept _my_ brain just fine; dunno what’s wrong with you lot.”

James waves him off. “Remus, you know all about this stuff. What was she? Was she a fairy? Did I buy a puffskein off a fairy?”

“I don’t know about that,” Remus says slowly. “You said she was Russian?”

“Something like that, I think,” says Peter.

“I think you three ran into a veela,” he says. He turns and looks at Sirius, tipping his head to the side like he does when he’s thinking hard. “Though in that case, I don’t know why you didn’t—”

“Hang on,” James interrupts, “what’s a veela?”

Remus is still looking at Sirius, who has the unnerving feeling he’s being studied.

“They, ah...” Remus blinks and looks away, turning to James again. “They’re Slavic, they charm people. Certain kinds of people.”

“Well, she charmed me alright— charmed me out of fifty Galleons!”

“You gave her _fifty Galleons?_ ”

“Yeah, I brought everything my parents gave me for the year along today, just in case!” James cries. “Now I’ve just got Carlos!”

“Carlos is a girl, by the way,” adds Remus.

“What?” yelps James. He looks at the furball on his shoulder, which doesn’t seem to have distinguishing features of any kind, as far as Sirius can tell. “How d’you know?”

Remus sticks his hands in his pockets. “Pitch of the humming, colouration, fur length.” He shrugs. “Subtle, but you can tell.”

Peter reaches up to pet her with two fingers. “She still seems like a Carlos to me, though.”

“Great,” grumbles James. “This day has been a disaster, but at least I’ve got Carlos the Amazing Androgynous Puffskein to keep me company.” He sighs. “Will someone spot me for a Fanged Frisbee? I’m good for it.”

  


***

  


Carlos the Amazing Androgynous Puffskein turns out to be quite a nice addition their group, in Remus’ opinion. Remus has always been interested in animals, but the sentiment has never been returned: since he was five years old every creature he’s encountered, magical or otherwise, has instantly recognised him for what he is and hated him on the spot. In their dormitory Tesla never comes within a metre of his bed if she can help it, and hisses at him when he comes too close. Professor Kettleburn, good sport that he is, always comes up with excuses for the rest of the class as to why today’s specimen crawled, scuttled, flew, or galloped away from Remus with such obvious distaste. Carlos, though, doesn’t seem to mind him at all. Remus isn’t sure if this means that she’s the most courageous creature he’s ever met, or if she’s simply too stupid to realise he’s a threat.

The Christmas holidays fall not long after the veela-also-Carlos incident, which leaves Remus lots of free time to think about it. The incident, that is. And he has been. Thinking about it, that is. A lot.

It’s odd.

It’s not a problem, of course. Remus’ friends have no trouble at all accepting his turning into a monster once a month, so in comparison this is nothing at all. Besides, his mother has very progressive views on the topic (she is an academic, after all), which he’s inherited. He doesn’t know, then, why he feels so funny about the news. Is it because he knows and James and Peter don’t know? Because he knows and Sirius doesn’t know that he knows? Should he tell Sirius that he knows, or play dumb? It’s a bit of a pickle.

Remus just wishes he could pinpoint exactly why he feels so funny about it. He doesn’t feel _uncomfortable_ , that’s not it. It’s more like the information keeps presenting itself at random, over and over, at strange times. He’ll be going about his life, reading a book or brushing his teeth or talking to his mother, and some voice in his mind will remind him, just in case he’s forgotten.

_Hello there_ , it says. _Just making sure you remembered that Sirius is a homosexual_.

“Remus?”

He blinks. “Sorry, what?”

“I asked how your friends are doing,” Mum says, spreading jam on her toast. “Looks like you aren’t the only one shooting up like a weed. I swear Sirius is a foot taller than the last time I saw him. And I chatted with Madeleine a bit on the platform, she said she can hardly keep Peter in shoes big enough—”

Remus laughs. “He wore holes right through the toes of his trainers, we had to use Spellotape.”

“—and I told her how the doctor was shocked at how tall you’d gotten. He hadn’t expected you to grow much for the next couple of years at all, you’re such late bloomer.”

His smile drops away. “Gee, thanks,” he deadpans. “That’s just what I want my best friends’ mothers knowing about me.”

She waves a toast-filled hand dismissively. “Poorami said the Healers say the same thing about James.”

He slumps back into his chair and groans. “How many people did you tell I’m a ‘late bloomer’?”

“Just those two,” she says. Then her face darkens. “I’d hardly try to speak to Mrs Black, would I? That woman is a nightmare, I think she’d spit venom at me if I got too close.”

Remus takes a bite of oatmeal. “You’re not far off, probably,” he says.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, God’s sakes. Were you raised by wolves?”

He swallows. “You aren’t allowed to make that joke, you’ve already named me ‘Remus’.”

“I was Rhea eons before you were Remus,” she points out. “I named you in order that I _could_ make the joke.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s fair, I suppose.” He stands, collects his and Mum’s breakfast dishes, and crosses their tiny kitchen to dump them in the sink. She finishes the last of her coffee and joins him, beginning the washing while Remus stands ready with the drying rag.

“What’ve you got for the last day before the holidays?”

“I’m giving a surprise quiz on _Great Expectations_ ,” Mum answers, handing over a wet plate, “because I’m a horrible witch.”

Remus snorts at the word choice. Then he scrunches his nose. “Bit cruel. It’s Christmas, after all.”

“I’ve been hinting I’d do it all week, they’ll manage. And it doesn’t look it, does it?” She reaches up to part the yellow gingham curtains and peers out at the bleak, slate-grey London sky. “No snow all month. Seems unnatural, doesn’t it? Isn’t Christian.”

“Nor’s having a son who practices witchcraft.”

“I suppose it isn’t,” she says, puts a hand on the back of his head, and pulls him in to smack a kiss onto his hair. “Smart arse.”

He laughs. She turns from the sink to flit around the kitchen, collecting her books, pulling on her coat and scooping up her scarf, the ugly one made of lumpy multi-coloured yarn she keeps wearing no matter how much Remus makes fun of it. She loops it around her neck and says, “Pass me my cigarettes?”

While Remus’ back is turned to get the pack from the windowsill she says, “You should invite Sirius over.”

He spins around. “Why?” It comes out louder than he intended.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen him here.” She picks up her case from beside the brimming hall bookcase. “And I hate the idea of the poor boy closed in with that wretched woman during Christmas.”

He nods. But Mum just keeps looking at him and he doesn’t know why, so he nods again. She raises her eyebrows.

“What—” he starts to say, but then remembers the existence of his hands. “Oh!” He hands her the pack of cigarettes. She gives him another curious look but says nothing, then turns for the door.

“I’ve got a question.”

She stops. “What?”

He picks his words with precision. “If I discover a friend’s secret, have I got to tell them that I know? Because…keeping that from them is keeping a secret, and you aren’t meant to keep secrets from your friends?”

If Mum feels this is a stupid question she doesn’t show it. Maybe that’s the teacher bit, Remus thinks.

She rests her case on the table and considers for a moment, tipping her head to the side. It’s a mannerism they share. “I suppose it depends on the gravity of the secret,” she says finally. “Of course honesty is preferable, but I think that sometimes when it comes between keeping something a secret and hurting somebody’s feelings, you’ve got to do what’ll cause the least collateral damage.”

“So, I’m _supposed_ to lie?”

“Of course not. Always be honest if you can manage it.” She stops to think again, picking at the corner of her case, at _Professor R.J. Lupin_ stamped across the leather. “I only mean that sometimes, in certain situations, there are things that should stay private and that’s what keeps the friendship strong.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Remus says. “I don’t think that’s right.”

She laughs. “You're thirteen. More things in heaven and earth, love.”

The matter of whether or not to follow Mum’s suggestion of having Sirius over ends up being answered for him when Charon the owl shows up, letter-less, at Remus’ bedroom window. After he lets him in the owl simply stands there on his dresser, staring at Remus expectantly with big orange eyes. He only does that when Sirius is acting particularly claustrophobic and miserable and Charon decides he’s due for some correspondence.

“Alright, alright,” Remus says. “I’ll invite him over, happy?”

Charon hoots.

He digs in his desk drawer for a pen. “Shut up,” he grumbles.

Remus sends off the message and gets a reply back forty-five minutes later. Now, a couple of hours after that, Sirius is on the sitting room floor by the record player, listening with an expression of mingled horror and rapt fascination to “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling”.

It’s entirely Remus’ fault, this situation. Normally when Sirius comes over they talk or watch television or sit in shared comfortable boredom, but today he went and suggested they put on a record. It seems like every holiday Sirius spends at home is worse than the last one, and Remus wanted to do _something_ to lift his mood. He knows how much Sirius likes music— there’s hardly a time when they’re in their dormitory that something isn’t playing on Peter’s bewitched turntable— and he thought it’d cheer him up.

It was a good enough plan in theory. Remus just forgot that all of the records they have are his mum’s and are, truthfully, pretty dreadful.

Sirius doesn’t take his eyes from the record’s sleeve. “This,” he declares, “is bloody awful.”

Remus shakes his head mournfully. “I told you not to put it on.”

“They’ve all been awful! This is amazing!” He goes for the pile of discarded records and starts pulling them out at random, examining their faded covers. “I thought Muggles were just better at music than wizards, but it turns out Brianna’s only been showing me the good bits! Muggles can be horrible at music too, how about that? Wait till I tell Malcolm!”

Remus laughs. “If he’s been living round Muggles long enough to hear a Donny Osmond tune, I think he already knows.”

“Who’s Donny Osmond?”

Remus shudders. “God, you’re lucky.”

“These’re all really old, too,” Sirius says, peering at the small print on a Brenda Lee album. “It’s stupid to listen to old music, there’s too much new stuff coming out all the time.”

“They’re not that old. Most of them are under ten years, I think.”

“Ten years is _ancient!_ ” Sirius says, laughing. “Merlin, you’re as bad as James. He was digging round in my records one time and when I asked him what he was after, he asked if I had the Beatles. The bloody _Beatles_ , can you believe it?” He grimaces. “I could’ve killed him right there.”

“What’s wrong with the Beatles? They’re alright.”

Sirius rolls his eyes with tremendous drama. “They’re passé, you tart. They’re shite your mum listens to.”

“My mum does rather like them, actually. I think we’ve got _Revolver_ around here somewhere—”

He makes a frustrated noise. “Not your mum specifically. Everybody’s mums. The collective Your Mum.”

Remus nods but is still a bit confused.

“All I mean is nobody cool listens to the Beatles anymore,” Sirius explains.

“You’re the only cool person in our group,” Remus points out. “Peter and I are hopeless. James thinks he’s cool but is equally hopeless.”

Sirius sighs. “Look, it all comes down to keeping up with change, right? If we keep listening to the same stuff our parents listened to we’ll keep _thinking_ the same things our parents thought, and nothing will ever change. That’s why wizards are bad at music,” he says, with as much certainty as if he’d just said a sentence that made sense.

“Because…” Remus thinks for a moment, trying to keep up. “…because they never change?”

Sirius smiles. “Now you’ve got it.” He uncrosses his legs and straightens them out across the carpet.

Remus hasn’t thought about it until now, but Mum was right when she said that he’s grown a lot. And while Remus, James, and Peter show every sign of becoming gawky, sharp-elbowed disasters over the next couple of years, Sirius already seems to be pulling it off with a measure of grace, which is rather unfair. He’s leggier than he was, Remus observes, and his shoulders might be a little wider. There’s a new sharpness to his face, just the smallest hint of it; shadow where there wasn’t any before. It becomes him, he thinks. It becomes him very much.  

Remus clears his throat and drops his eyes to his cuticles. Then he says, “How’d James hear about the Beatles, anyway?”

“He said Evans likes them.” Sirius snorts. “Dunno how he’d know that, though, seeing as she ignores his existence.”

Curious, Remus looks up again. “Did something happen with you and Lily?”

“What d’you mean?”

“You didn’t use to call her ‘Evans’,” he explains, “and I don’t suppose I’ve seen you two talk once this year. You used to be quite good friends, I thought.”

Sirius nods, shrugs. “Yeah, we act like we aren’t anymore.”

“Why?”

“Bothers James.”

“I don’t follow.”

He shrugs again. “He’s got this big weird thing for her, so he acts like he isn’t obsessed with her by pretending to hate her. I’ve got to play along and pretend to hate her too because we always hate the same people, but the whole thing’s so dumb because both of us know that it’s fake and it’s only in order to keep up the pretending that I’ve got to stop being friends with her. Or pretend to stop for his sake. I dunno. They feel similar.”

“Doesn’t that…upset you? At all?”

Sirius’ voice is nonchalant, but the way he looks down at his shoes to answer keeps Remus from believing it. “It’s not a big deal. James is my brother, he’d do it for me.”

“I don’t think you’d try so hard to act like you hated somebody you fancied, though,” Remus says, and the little annoying voice in his head decides to pipe up. _Boys_ , it reminds him. _If he fancied somebody, it’d be a boy_. If Remus could punch it in the face, he would. “I can’t imagine you going to the trouble.”

Sirius laughs. “Nah, I wouldn’t,” he says, smiling at him. Then he drops his eyes back to the discarded records. “That’s James’ bag entirely— putting loads of effort into a dumb lie nobody believes, just to make himself feel cooler.”

Remus laughs, the record clicks to a stop, and the annoying voice says, _Boys_.

“Oh, thank Merlin it’s over,” Sirius says. He shakes some hair out of his face and grins. “What d’you think, can we find a worse one? Just how far down does the rabbit hole go?”

Remus laughs again. “Go on, try it. Put something on, see how dreadful and cheesy we can get.”

With a grandiose sweeping gesture to Remus, Sirius announces, “I accept your challenge.” He dives back into the crate pulled from the cupboard and yanks out a record at random. He squints at the sleeve. “I haven’t got a clue what a ‘Sonny’ _or_ a ‘Cher’ are.”

Remus falls back against the sofa cushions with a groan. “I changed my mind. Let’s see what’s on television.”

  


***

  


The first full moon after the holidays was last Tuesday, and Remus only got back from the hospital wing on Saturday. Maybe the bad moon was just a coincidence.

Yeah. Maybe the crippling guilt over enabling his friends’ death wishes had nothing to do with it at all.

It’s clear for January today, and their group of four is among the multitudes enjoying the wintry sunshine in the courtyard. But instead of joining the cluster of their friends, playing a game of Gobstones that has somehow managed to become quite raucous, they’re sitting in a corner with their heaps of library books. On Remus’ left, James squints down at his as if he were trying to read it without his glasses. “Any of you lot know what this thing about ‘elemental transmogrification’ means?”

“Not a chance,” Peter says glumly.

“Maybe if we asked McGonagall,” Sirius says. “I mean, just for a couple of small things, y’know. ‘Professor, I saw this when I was reading and—’”

“That’d never work, Black, she knows you can’t read.”

“If we just kept it to small stuff, maybe we could get her help without—” Sirius cuts off. Curling his lip, he turns his head to look straight into the clump of bushes on his other side. “Come to call, have you?”

Snape stands up. He must’ve been on the bench beside the bushes, slouched low enough that they couldn’t see him. Not bothering to come up with a comeback, he sneers at them and slinks away.

Sirius grits his teeth. “You’re _sure_ I can’t hex him?”

“Later,” James says. “Right now would be suspicious.”

“He’s not a threat,” Remus mutters. “He doesn’t know anything. He’s got nothing on us.”

He isn’t sure how much he believes himself, though. Logically, he knows there’s nothing Severus Snape can do to hurt them, no leverage he has to threaten them, but Remus still worries. He doesn’t like the look Snape gets on his face sometimes: a look like he _knows_ something.

When Remus expressed this to Peter yesterday in Arithmancy (he wouldn’t dare say it to Sirius and James, they’d only take it as incentive to do something stupid), Peter was uncharacteristically nonchalant about it.

“I don’t think he knows anything at all, I reckon his face just looks like that,” he said, not glancing up from a page of complex calculations. “Even if he did, seeing us running round knocking on statues at all hours has got to have thrown him off the trail a bit.”

“They’ve certainly noticed us doing that,” Remus conceded.

Ever since Regulus let slip about the secret passageways supposedly hidden deep in the castle, made the enigmatic remark about _poking statues_ , James and Sirius’ quest to hunt them down has been relentless. It’s become habit for the two of them to walk down the corridors with their wands out, ready to give any statue they pass a sharp tap. Thus far it’s yielded nothing except the confused expressions of passersby.

But despite what Peter said, Remus doubts Snape is thrown off at all: judging by the Slytherin gang’s muffled laughter when they witness the statue-tapping in action, they’ve guessed exactly what the four of them are attempting. So wouldn’t Snape realise they’re up to something else? Has he told the others?

Remus doesn’t have time to think this over, though, because Snape has barely slouched off out of view when James smacks him on the shoulder.

“ _Ow_ — what?”

James points. A group of girls has just wandered into the courtyard and at their front is Jeanette. She’s laughing at something Vera’s just said, and her dark hair shines in the weak winter sunshine. Remus swallows.

“It’s been _ages_ ,” James hisses. “What’s your plan, do nothing forever?”

“That’s it exactly, yes.” He stares down at his book and pretends to read it while watching Jeanette and her friends from under his fringe. It feels incredibly creepy of him. He’s felt creepy a lot recently, in dealing with (or, rather, _not_ dealing with) this situation.

After Remus and Jeanette’s first-date-that-never-was, neither of them have had the guts to take initiative again, and they’ve both been carefully skirting each other for the better part of two months. It’s shameful behaviour from two Gryffindors, this kind of cowardice. He knows that, even without James’ almost daily reminders that he’s a disgrace.

In all honesty— and he’d never admit this to the others— a part of Remus wishes they could just wipe the slate clean and forget she’d ever asked him out in the first place. Jeanette’s a lovely person, of course. She’s smart and pretty and friendly, and he likes her very much. But for whatever reason he just can’t summon up the energy to fancy her like he used to. It’s a lot of effort.

Sometimes Remus does wonder how it shifted so quickly. Why doesn’t he care anymore? He was so nervous and excited on the morning of their date; what changed? What’s happened since then? Romance is complicated and strange, and Remus suspects that he’s already terrible at it.

James glares at him. “If you don’t go over and talk to her I’ll put Bubotuber pus in your socks, don’t think I won’t.”

Remus sighs. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’re thirteen,” Peter points out.

Remus ignores him. He tries so hard to concentrate on the enormous transfiguration tome in his lap that he doesn’t notice, a while later, when someone tries to get his attention. James cuffs him roughly around the neck and he looks up.

Jeanette’s approached their corner. She’s by herself, though Remus notices Vera, Marianne Summerby, and Florence Bode watching discreetly from the other side of the courtyard. She stands straight and confident in front of them, hands clutched neatly behind her back, as she says, “Hello. It’s very nice out today, isn’t it?”

Behind her, Remus sees Florence snort and be quickly shushed by Vera and Marianne. It’s rather distracting. “Er.”

James cuts in. “It most certainly is! Quite lovely for this time of year, isn’t it? Remus, you’d just finished your reading, hadn’t you?”

“Er.”

“If you have,” Jeanette says to Remus, looking newly hopeful, “I was thinking we could go for a walk on the grounds? Since it’s so nice, I mean. If you’d like to.”

He tries his hardest to ignore his peripheral vision, where Florence has now stuffed her sleeve into her mouth to stifle her laughter. “Sure.”

“Good stuff, good stuff,” James says bracingly, gathering up his things. He leaps to his feet and says, “Lads, shall we get going, then?”

Sirius follows suit. “Yes, best be off.”

Peter looks up at them. “Where’re we going?”

“Er.” James grabs him by the arm. “This way. Come along.”

The three of them vanish so quickly from sight that Remus would swear they’d already found a secret passageway, leaving him and Jeanette alone. Her hair blows gently around her face and she creases her brow, thoughtful.

“James Potter really is strange, isn’t he?”

Remus nods as he gets his books together. “He really is.” He stands, and gestures in the direction opposite Vera, Marianne, and Florence, who are still watching. “Shall we go, then?”

  


***

  


The card game score was four hundred and ninety-seven to four hundred and twenty-eight when they started today’s round, and the gap is only getting bigger with Peter playing by himself against James and Sirius. Poor kid never stood a chance.

“I can’t believe he would abandon the team for a _girl_. I’m getting slaughtered,” Peter moans, and his point is punctuated by one of his cards, angered by the dumb move he just made, throwing sparks into his face. Tesla jumps up from his lap with an indignant meow.

James swats at Peter’s fringe while the smell of burning hair fills the room, and he manages not to gloat at all. He’s proud of himself for it.

“Well, it’s about time it happened for one of us. We’ve really got to up our game,” James says. He looks across the small circle they’ve made on the dormitory floor at Sirius, who gives a tiny narrowing of his eyes. He nods, throws down a card, and says, “It’s disgraceful that Remus was the first to land a girl, seeing as he never even tries.”

Sirius laughs. “Can you dig that, lady’s man? You’re outpaced by the sensible one.”

“ _Relatively_ sensible one,” Peter corrects.

James huffs, raking a hand through his hair. “Dumb luck, that’s all. I was making some headway with Wendy.”

“‘Was’? Have you got another one now?”

“No, I just gave up on that. Ravenclaw girls, y’know. They’re tough.”

“Yeah, ’cause any girl with brains gives you a wide berth.”

Peter laughs. James ignores them both and goes on. “You know who’s alright, though? Florence, she’s alright. Great Seeker and all, but more than that-- one of those good old Gryffindor girls, y’know. You don’t get girls like that in other houses.”

Peter and Sirius exchange a look and laugh some more.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, mate,” Sirius says, grinning. “You sure are an expert, alright.”

“You lot are just jealous cause you’re too cowardly to do anything. But you’ve got to _try_ , see, cause that’s what they want. If you two keep on the way you are,” he says wisely, “you’ll graduate here without ever touching a girl, and that’s a fact.”

Sirius lets out a particularly loud bark of laughter and says, “Isn’t it just?”

James doesn’t know what he means by that, but he flicks a sparking card at him for good measure. “If you wanted to get off your arse, Black, Remus could probably get Jeanette to, y’know, give Vera a bit of a suggestion, eh?”

Sirius makes a face. “Why?”

James rolls his eyes. Merlin, he’s really going to have to hold both of their hands through this stuff. They’re so lucky they have him around. “Don’t be a prat, she’s one of the best-looking girls in the year.”

“You take her, then,” Sirius snaps, in a prattish way.

“Nah, I’m not so into blondes.”

“You prefer redheads, then?” says Peter, and Sirius bursts out laughing again.

James, who very much _does not know what they are insinuating_ , goes back to his cards. Before he can ignore them with his fullest conviction, the door to the dormitory opens. Remus has barely set foot inside when all three of them— with a synchronicity that really speaks to their effectiveness as a group, James thinks— start crowing and catcalling at him.

Remus rolls his eyes but smiles. “Oh, shut up. What’s the score?”

“Doesn’t matter, they’re beating us,” Peter says. “What happened?”

Remus is doing that thing where he tries his hardest to keep that mature way about him (it’s put on, has been since he was eleven, they all know it) but a smile threatens the corners of his mouth anyway. “You’re all a bunch of gossips.”

“Yes, yes, we’re old hens, we know,” James says. “Now— what happened?”

Remus joins the circle and gathers a hand of cards. “We went on a walk.”

“Yes? And?”

“And, we just—” Finally he cracks and laughs through, “And I’m not telling you!”

There’s a chorus of boos and “ _Come ooooon!”_ but Remus just keeps laughing and shakes his head. “You’re all the worst. Is there any private business around here?”

The three of them, all at once, chime in with: “No!”

“Nope!”

“None at all!”

“You haven’t noticed that yet?” Peter asks. “Dunno why we even bothered with an oath. We couldn’t keep secrets from each other if we tried, so there’s just no point in giving it the effort.”

“It’s not a secret. I just figure some things can be kept to ourselves.”

“You figure wrong. Did you snog? I bet you did,” James says. He sees that direct questioning is the only way to break him here.

Remus hesitates, plays a card, and says nothing. They all burst out laughing again.

“Well, Mr Lady’s Man,” Sirius drawls, “What’s your excuse now? The _Relatively_ Sensible One kissed a girl before you did.”

“Like I said— luck! Sheer dumb luck! He didn’t even _try!_ ”

“Yes, I suppose that’s why I beat you to it,” says Remus, who James firmly believes should be rechristened to the Smart-Arse One.

“Hey, you have not got better moves than me, Remus Lupin!” he exclaims, while Sirius laughs it up next to him, the traitor. “Just luck! And a smart mouth!”

Remus primly adjusts the cards in his hand. “That has never been said to me before ever in my life,” he deadpans.

The other two are just having the time of their bloody lives, and James tosses down a card with a huff.

“Are you going to tell us what happened or not?” asks Peter. “We’re just gonna keep guessing until we hit on something.”

“If you must know, we didn’t _snog_. We walked and talked, she kissed me, and that was the end of it.”

“It’s always way easier when they make the first move,” says James. “Gryffindor girls, I’m telling you.”

“‘Always’?” Sirius says. “You say this from experience, do you?”

“Well, I gather,” James retorts, and even to him it sounds weak. He feels his face heating up and, not for the first time, thanks his lovely Indian mother for his dark skin. It sure beats being all pasty like Sirius and glowing like a Christmas bauble at the slightest provocation. “So I suppose you two are going out now?”

“I don’t know where ‘out’ we could go.”

“There it is again! The smart mouth!”

Sirius snorts. “Seems to be his middle name.”

“It’s John, actually, but I’ll take it,” Remus says evenly. At James’ expression, he caves. “Yes, we’re going out.”

“Ha! I knew it!”

“Because he’s just told us, you plonker.”

“I was just telling Sirius that he ought to ask Vera out,” James tells Remus.

Scoffing, Sirius puts down a card. It explodes; they all recoil just in time. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not? She’s plenty fit and has always been nice enough. Besides, you’re friends with Remus who is dating Jeanette who is friends with Vera— it makes sense, right?”

“She’s not my type,” Sirius says dryly.

There’s an odd choking sound and James jumps. Remus is clearing his throat. James turns to him and asks, “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” Remus says with another small throat-clearing noise. “Something in my throat. Your turn, Pete.”

“Anyway,” James continues. “If you’re not gonna try with her, you should try with _somebody_. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever even heard you talk about a girl— what sort of Good-Looking One are you to this group?”

“A very specific sort,” Sirius says vaguely to his cards. “Bother Pettigrew, then, he’s the oldest, he should do it.”

James shrugs and turns to Peter. “The Good-Looking One makes an excellent point, even if he is about to be demoted to The One Who’s Lucky He’s Pretty Because He’s Entirely Useless.”

Peter’s face drops into something like horror. “Please don’t make me do it.”

“ _Eurgh_ ,” James says, with great feeling. “You lot are _hopeless_.”

  


***

  



	8. slaughter on 10th avenue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I hate it when you talk like that. As if you weren't worth a bit of fuss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, this update has art!!! I'm delighted to share with yall two beautiful pieces by my dear pal Al (formofmodernart.tumblr.com). They're at the end of the chapter, and they're marvelous.
> 
> The chapters are getting longer from here, so I want to thank you guys again for following this story. People have said such incredibly nice things, and I'm very grateful. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

***

  


_Dear Andromeda,_

  


_I don’t think you’ve been getting these, so I don’t know why I’m still sending them. I suppose I’m in the habit of it now._

_Things are normal here. I lit Snape on fire during Potions today. It wasn’t my idea— James had done it twenty minutes earlier— but it’s always fun making the slimy git squeal like a little girl. We didn’t even get detention for it! We’re already rather booked for this week, detention-wise. We got three days for starting a dueling club in the boy’s bathroom and the day after that is either for making Stebbins sneeze glue or Aubrey’s head swell up, can’t remember which._

_Something’s up with Regulus._

_James has got a puffskein now, I forgot to tell you that. Her name’s Carlos. James has got a puffskein and Remus has got a girlfriend. Her name’s Jeanette._

_How was your Christmas? I wonder what holidays are like wherever you are, far enough away that the owls can’t find you. Mine was right boring. The family party was at Uncle Alphard’s which would’ve been cool if I’d gotten to talk to him at all, but I didn’t. Great Aunt Petrinella chewed my ear off the whole time about how the birds are getting to her dirigible plums. Don’t think she remembered who I was._

_My hand’s cramping._

_I know right well that wherever you are these letters aren’t getting to you. Reckon I can write whatever I feel like. Something’s really wrong with Regulus and I didn’t tell my friends all of it because it’s not like I care what happens to him because he’s one of them now, so why would I care? He’s up to something and I can’t stop thinking about it._

_I wish I was better at deciding what I think about. I think about so many things I wish I didn’t. When I’m not thinking about Regulus I’m thinking about Remus and it’s in quite a different way entirely and it’s only getting worse. I feel like a pervert. I am a pervert, I suppose. I feel totally helpless, I can’t make it stop, it runs me over every single day and I can’t do anything about it. My brain won’t leave him alone._

_My hand’s cramping again. Will take a break._

_Jeanette’s very nice. She’s Lily’s best friend (besides Snivellus, anyway), so you know she’s alright. I do like her a lot, she’s very clever and very kind and uses a lot of big words. The perfect girl for him, I reckon. I’m clever and I know big words but I’m not kind at all. Remus is the kindest person in the world._

_I won’t send this letter. Miss you loads._

  


_Talk to you soon,_

_Sirius_

  


_***_

  


“Oh, it’s a map,” Remus says. 

April came in bright and blustery this year. The chill lingers out on the grounds, especially here in the shade of their usual beech tree beside the lake, but the sky is blue and sunny. Some fifth years run up and down the slope to the shore, tossing around a snarling Fanged Frisbee. The Giant Squid waves its tentacles lazily in the shallows; Davey Gudgeon and Dirk Cresswell, waded out up their knees, offer it a slice of toast. 

“Yeah,” Peter says. He shuffles his book to his other knee and gives Remus a better look at the parchment he’s sketching on. “For the passageway hunt.”

On Remus’ other side, Jeanette looks up from her Charms textbook. The wind rushing off the lake throws her hair around her face; she twists it back and sticks it through with her wand. “The what?” 

“James and Sirius have got this idea that there’s a secret passageway out of the castle,” Remus tells her. “They reckon it’s hidden in a statue, and you can only get it to open by tapping it.”

“Oh, _that’s_ why they’ve been hitting their wands on things,” she says. “People have been quite confused about that.”

“I don’t blame them.”

“That one group of Slytherin boys seems to be getting a real laugh out of it.”

“Yeah, they…” Remus trails off, thinks for a moment, and settles on, “Yeah.”

Peter points to an ink circle representing a stone gargoyle on the third floor. He’s scratched an X through it. “Thought it’d be a good idea to note which ones we’ve already tried.” It’s hardly necessary, since James and Sirius have smacked just about every statue, tapestry, suit of armour, and slightly funny-looking stretch of wall in the school by now, but it seems like the thing to do. “I’m trying to do an outline of each floor and it’s really hard. I forget how bloody confusing this place is.”

“You can say that again,” Jeanette says darkly. “There’s not a thing simple or sensical about it. I missed my first Ancient Runes lesson because I couldn’t manage to open the door.”

“Peeves?” 

“Wasn’t a door at all,” she says. “Bit of wall playing pretend.”

“Been there,” Peter says sympathetically. 

She hums. “It’s a noble endeavour and all, but I think you’d have to be mad to try to map it.”

Peter shrugs and goes back to it, ignoring the textbook in his lap he’s meant to be reading. He doesn’t feel like revising anyway. James and Sirius abandoned their work a long time ago in favour of a practise duel, a recent hobby of theirs. Today it’s devolved, as it often does, into wrestling each other in the grass beside the beech tree, their wands flung away and forgotten. 

The only people who seem to have any focus are Remus and Jeanette, who sit side by side with their heads bent over books. Since they started dating a few months ago they’ve fallen into a routine of quietly revising together. James makes fun of them for it, but Peter admires the dedication. If Peter had a girlfriend, he reckons, he’d spend every moment around her so petrified by nerves he’d forget how to read.

“Jenny?”

He looks up. Lily Evans stands with one hand on the strap of her bag and the other holding her hair in a matter-of-fact fist against the wind. “Ready?”

“Oh, right.” Jeanette gathers up her things. “Sorry,” she tells Remus. “I said we’d work on the Transfiguration project.”

“She’s welcome to join us here, if she likes,” Remus says. “It’s a lovely spot.”

“Er.” Her ink-black eyes flick tellingly toward James, who’s got Sirius in a chokehold. “Another time, I think.”

“Ah. Right.” 

“See you.” She stoops down for her bag, gives Remus a peck on the cheek, and runs off to join Lily.

Under his breath, Remus says, “Glad he didn’t notice her.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Getting old, isn’t it? Him going on about—”

“Was that Evans?” 

Peter groans internally. Remus groans externally.

“ _Merlin_ , she’s horrible,” James proclaims, grass-stained and disheveled. He lets go of Sirius, who drops to the ground with a yelp. “Can’t just mind her own business, can she? Suppose she’d die if she didn’t stick her nose someplace for one day in her life.”

“She was only getting her for a project.”

“Interrupting, like the busybody she is! She’s the absolute _worst_.”

Remus leans in toward Peter. "There goes the lady," he mumbles. "Protesting."

James pays them no mind, still in his own world of hatred for Lily Evans. “Can’t believe you’d associate with somebody like that.”

“Last I checked I was dating Jeanette, not Lily.”

“Yeah, but she’s her friend, so it’s _association_ ,” James says. “Look at it this way: you’re dating Jeanette, who’s friends with Evans, who’s friends with _Snivellus_. You’re basically dating Snivellus.”

“Is that how that works?”

“Yeah!”

“I see.”

“Really cannot stand her,” James grumbles. He’s revving up for one of his big ‘Lily Evans is the worst’ sermons. “Walking round like she _owns_ —”

Remus reaches over, snatches the parchment out of Peter’s fingers, and holds it up. “Look, Peter's made a map.” 

Shaking grass from his hair, Sirius sits up. “What for?”

“The secret passageway thing,” Peter says. “I’m trying to mark all the statues we’ve already tried. The little Xs, look.”

They both walk over to peer at the parchment. “There’s a lot of them," says Sirius.

“Got to be some left! C’mon, let’s go look round some more.” James turns and takes off for the front doors, Sirius in his wake.

Remus and Peter give each other a look. Then they follow them. 

For two floors nothing happens. On the third floor James makes a line for a statue of a hunchbacked crone, launching into another one of his monologues.

“Maybe it’s the sort of situation where you’ve got to tap on just the right spot.” He runs his fingers over the smooth stone. “Or, like, they only work on the quarter moon, or when Mercury is— _agh!_ ”

With a soft but insistent _poof_ , the stone witch bursts forth a thick cloud of something powdery, bright magenta, and sulfuric-smelling. 

“What— the _bloody_ —”

The cloud dissipates and James appears, furious and powder-caked. He lets out a string of confused, half-formed curse words, wiping frantically at his face. Meanwhile, Sirius doubles over in laughter.

“Mate,” he gasps, “I think somebody was expecting you.”

“You know what this means?” 

“War?” 

James nods, with a severity few violently pink, foully-smelling men could manage. “Damn straight.”

  


***

  


With the company he keeps, Remus understands he can’t expect any peace. Even so, these days are a bit much.

“Couldn’t you keep those two reined in?” Jeanette asks.

“You know the answer to that.”

“Vera’s in Divination with them,” she says. “With the Slytherins.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yeah. They keep dropping Dungbombs in the middle of lessons. They’ve had to leave the classroom twice to let it fumigate.”

“Oh _dear_.”

“I’ll say.” 

They’re in the library, a spread of open textbooks and rolls of parchment between them. “They’re in a prank war with the Slytherins,” Remus says.

“Aren’t they always?”

He can’t argue with that. “A bit more pointed this time. James was so excited about his secret passageway scheme that it made him rather sore when they used it against him.”

“Oh?”

“They rigged a statue. It exploded pink dye all over James last week."

“Aaah.” She snickers into _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_. “Sorry. It’s pretty funny.”

“It definitely is, feel free to laugh all you like.”

“Are you feeling alright?” Jeanette asks. “You don’t look well.”

It’s tactful of her; Remus reckons a more accurate way to put it would be _you look half dead_. “I’m under the weather,” he says.

The full moon is tonight, and it’s going to be bad. He can always tell. 

He reckons it isn’t a coincidence that his current state— pounding headache, sensitivity to light, aches and pains everywhere— only hit him this morning, when James announced that they’d made some sort of breakthrough in the Animagus project, and it wouldn’t be long now before they moved on to the next phase of the spell. For a long time Remus half-convinced himself that this plan of theirs wouldn’t work and that eventually they’d hit a wall, give up.  They haven’t, and he's started to think they never will. He’s having a hard time dealing with that. 

He wonders how it is that the wolf can always tell these things.

Jeanette’s looking at him, an even expression on her face. “‘Under the weather,’” she repeats.

“Yeah, it’s nothing. It’ll pass.”

Jeanette drops her eyes to her book. Then she sighs, shuts it, and looks up again. 

“Remus, we should talk.”

  


***

  


It takes a bit, but James and Sirius finally concoct the _perfect_ prank to hit the Slytherins with, which they resolve to tell the other two that evening at dinner. But when they meet at the table in the Great Hall, Peter’s the only one there.

“Not here,” he says, looking concerned. “Haven’t seen him all evening.”

Sirius could smack himself. “It’s the full tonight. We forgot, with all the warfare.”

James sighs. “Well, I don’t want to wait until tomorrow to tell them, do you?”

“No,” Sirius agrees. “Where is he?”

"He was pretty awfully moony," Peter says. “Kitchens, probably."

Sirius winces. This will be a bad one, then. He can’t believe he didn’t notice him looking moony before.

“Black, you wanna go tell him the plan while I fill Pete in?”

“Yeah, sure.” He leaves the Great Hall and makes for the stairs down to the kitchens. 

Even amidst all the mealtime activity, it doesn’t take long to spot Remus sitting at one of the long tables. He has his usual pre-awful-moon dinner in front of him, a slab of meat so undercooked it’s practically bleeding, and is neatly picking it apart with his fingers. 

A part of Sirius, an annoying part that he hates, notes that, yep, his stomach still flips over every time he sees Remus. Even though he sleeps in the same room as him, goes to half the same classes as him, eats every meal with him, and pretty much spends every hour of every single day around him. It still does that. Great. Far out.

Sirius remembers the weeks following that particular revelation. What simple times they were, he thinks. Back then, he calmed himself with the thought that hey, at least it’ll be over soon. These things never last long, they fade with time; if James is any example, they last an average of about three weeks. It'll keep being a drag for now, he told himself-- it'll be painful and exhausting and embarrassing for a bit, but it’ll go away soon enough.

He stands there at the back of the kitchen and realises that it’s been almost a year since then. A whole _year_. And it's only getting worse.

Great. Solid.

Sirius crosses the room, dodging house-elves, and slides onto the bench across from him. “Hey-o, Mister Moony.”

Remus looks up. There are dark shadows dug under his eyes, which are now more black than brown, the pupil threatening to swallow up the iris. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Is that my title now? Wonderful."

“Sorry to interrupt, but there’s important business and we didn’t want to wait to get you on board.”

“Shoot.”

"Dig this." Sirius leans forward in a conspiratorial sort of way. Hardly necessary, since there are only busy house-elves around, but he’s nothing if not theatrical. “We’ve decided on the plan. And it’s a _big_ one.”

Remus blinks slowly. “Plan?”

“Our plan for vengeance against the Slytherin lot-- the one we’ve been scheming over for a week?”

“You have? I thought you’ve just been chucking Dungbombs about.”

“Those were preliminary Dungbombs until we thought of something better. Obviously. Do keep up, Moony.”

Remus sighs, digging his fingers around his temples. “You’re going to make it stick just to spite me, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely I will, Moony, if you don’t show a touch more enthusiasm.”

“I think I preferred it with the ‘Mister’, it’s more honourific.”

“You won’t even get that if you don’t at least _pretend_ to be excited.”

“That’s a tall order at the moment.” He groans and covers his eyes with his hand. “Jesus, it’s bloody bright in here.”

“Fine, don’t act excited, just listen.”

From behind his hand Remus says, “Done.”

If Sirius could provide a drumroll he would. “We,” he announces, “are going to break into the Slytherin common room.”

Remus peeks through his fingers, puzzled. “How?”

“Easily, that’s how. Shameful we never thought of it before, since all we’ve got to do is listen in the corridor with the Cloak on and wait for somebody to say the password.”

“But we don’t know where it is. What corridor would we wait in?”

Sirius scoffs as he swings his feet onto the bench next to him, leans up against his knees. “I’m a Black, mate, I know where the bloody Slytherin common room is. I practically know the damn floor plan.”

“What’re we going to do once we’re inside?”

“Possibilities are endless, aren’t they? We thought we’d start with the standard Dungbombs— they aren’t used to those on their home turf— but after that we can get _really_ creative. Would be great if we could get our hands on some Doxy eggs to plant someplace, give it a more long-lasting effect.”

The smile on Remus’ face isn’t his usual one at all. “It’s a good plan,” he says, and his voice comes out hoarse again.

Sirius frowns. “Merlin. One hell of a full this month.”

That actually gets a faint laugh from him, and when Sirius’ stomach does something odd and floppy Sirius ignores it. He’s impressive that way.

“Yeah, it is. This,” he says, gesturing vaguely at himself, “hit me out of the blue earlier today.”

“Rough.”

“Yeah. Confused Jeanette.”

“What’d you tell her?” 

“That I was under the weather.”

Sirius raises his eyebrows. “You look like an Inferius with a hangover. I reckon ‘under the weather’ is an understatement.”

“She seemed to think so too.”

“Why, what’d she say?”

“Broke up with me. Said I’m not honest with her.” Remus shrugs, smiling softly. “She’s not wrong.”

It feels like missing a step on the stairs, and then realising you’ve landed on the vanishing step and your foot is stuck. It’s sort of like that. 

“That’s a stupid reason to break up with somebody,” Sirius says.

“I disagree, I think it’s just about the best reason. She couldn’t trust me. It makes perfect sense.”

“Just because you wouldn’t tell her what was wrong with you one time, I don’t—”

“It was more than that, it wasn’t just this,” Remus says, shaking his head. “All the times I’ve had to lie about what the four of us were always working on together, the last two full moons… And I don’t think I could’ve convinced her that I’ve got a demented rabbit named Prometheus for much longer, either.”

“Merlin knows how James has kept that rumour alive,” Sirius mutters.

“It’s for the best, all things considered,” Remus says. “I’m not upset about it.”

“What d’you mean, ‘all things considered’?”

“Don’t be dense.”

“What?” Sirius feels anger rising in his chest. “You still think you aren’t allowed to date anybody because of the whole werewolf thing?”

Remus lets out a disbelieving laugh and looks up at the ceiling. “ _Whole werewolf thing_ …” 

“What? You’re being stupid.”

“It’s not a good idea,” Remus says. “It’s enough of a stretch that I’m here at all. I get to go to school, I get to have friends, I’m mostly a normal person— who cares if I don’t do this one thing? It’s no loss. I’m entirely fine with it.”

“Well _I’m_ not!” Sirius blurts out, and oh boy. “I mean-- I mean that you shouldn’t settle for any less than what everybody else gets, because you _are_ a normal person, completely.”

He smiles a tired smile that makes Sirius’ insides hurt. “That’s generous of you. But the righteous anger isn’t necessary, we were growing apart anyway.”

“You were?”

“Honestly, it’s a wonder it didn’t happen sooner. It was pushing four months, that’s impressive for fourteen-year-olds, I’m told.”

“So you really aren’t upset at all?”

Remus eats a bit of the forgotten steak in front of him and nods while he chews. “Life will be easier, that’s for sure. Even if it weren’t me, it would’ve been difficult bringing somebody new into the fold. All the secrets the four of us have got in the air at any given moment…" He shrugs again. "Well, it’ll just be easier, won’t it?”

“I...yeah.”

Remus sighs, looking in the vague direction of the rising moon, and tears off another piece. He chews quickly and swallows. “You ought to get back to the others. I’ve got to finish this before dark.”

  


***

  


April’s moon has Remus in the hospital wing for three full days; it’s only by the grace of god and relentless pestering of Madam Pomfrey that he’s allowed back late Wednesday evening. He climbs through the portrait hole just as Gryffindor Tower has begun to liven up, hanging in the post-homework pre-bedtime balance. From a sofa by the window, James waves him over.

“Good to see you among the living, mate!” he says. “We thought you were a goner there for a bit.”

Remus drops into the nearest seat, which happens to be the not-exactly-present space on the sofa between James and Sirius. He partially sits on both of them. “Yeah.”

“Why’d she make you stay so long?” Peter asks.

“I lost a lot of blood.” He keeps his voice light, but Peter still looks as though he regrets asking. “I took that stuff she gives you,” Remus tells Sirius. “Had to drink it about every three hours. It’s _awful_ — tastes like cabbages.”

Sirius leans over him to look at James. “Told you.”

James swats at his face and Sirius dodges it, then James produces the well-singed deck of cards from somewhere and begins to deal. “What’s the score?”

“Peter and I are, as always, losing,” Remus reports cheerfully. “Five hundred sixty-six to four hundred eighty-one.”

“Typical,” Peter says. His cards cough up some half-hearted sparks. 

“Anyway.” James tosses down the first card and asks Remus, “Remember that Animagus breakthrough we had the other day?”

Remus studies his cards. “Yes.”

“It’s just like I said: stuff’s moving _so_ much faster now! Can’t believe it took us so long to think of it.”

“What was the breakthrough, exactly?” Remus asks. “Was it a spell syntax problem, or more to do with the potion part?”

James blinks. “Didn’t we tell you? We stole a book from McGonagall’s study.”

“You did _what?_ ”

“We’re gonna put it back, geez,” James says. “She’s got a billion books in there, she’ll never notice it’s gone.”

“It’s helped so much, you’ve no idea,” Peter says. 

“Breaks the whole thing down much more simply than any of the ones in the library do,” Sirius adds, waving away the smoke billowing from his hand of cards. “All of those are so bloody oblique about it.”

“Almost as if it were like that on purpose,” Remus mumbles.

“Anyway,” James says. “We would’ve kept spinning our wheels for _ages_ without this beauty. Reckon we’ll be ready for the next big potion part in just a few months.”

“Goody,” Remus says. Then Sirius’ cards explode and somebody changes the subject. 

That night Remus doesn’t sleep well, as he expected he wouldn’t: for hours he slips in and out of a restless doze. His joints still aren’t quite right. His knees and elbows are stiff and swollen, and when he pushes himself up in bed at some small hour of the night he feels his shoulder blade pop ominously. He’s wondering if he shouldn’t swallow his pride and go knock on Madam Pomfrey’s door to ask for a painkilling potion when he sees a faint light through the fabric of his bed hangings. 

He pulls the curtain aside. Sirius is awake too; he sits against the headboard with his lit wand in one hand, painting his face with shadow. The quill in his other hand hovers indecisively over the parchment in his lap. 

“What’re you up to?” 

Sirius jumps. “Nothing.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“’S alright. What're you awake for?"

"No reason,” Remus says. The potion's out of the question, then. "Can't sleep."

Sirius sees through it. “Go see Madam Pomfrey."

"Why would I do that?” 

"Your shoulder's hurting you."

"No it's not," Remus lies.

"You're lying,” Sirius says.

“No I’m not.”

“Your right shoulder and your knees.” He's reading over his parchment, doesn’t lift his eyes. “And your head.”

Remus sighs. He knuckles the flesh around his eyes until phosphenes burst in the darkness. "And most everything else.”

Sirius looks at him, steady. “Yeah, I know.”

“Can everybody tell?”

“Doubt it.”

“But you could.”

Sirius drops his eyes again. “You move differently. Go see Madam Pomfrey."

"No.”

"Fine."

They both sit there in silence in the near-blackness, lit only by Sirius' wand. Remus isn’t sure why it feels uncomfortable when it never did before, back when they were kids and they used to share a bed sometimes. It’s not as though it’s that different; it's not a big room. Remus could reach over and touch the edge of Sirius' bed from here, if he wanted to. 

It feels different, though.

"What're you writing?"

Sirius shifts his arm to cover the parchment. “It's stupid."

"Stupid happens."

“I couldn’t sleep either. I’m writing to Andromeda."

"You are? That's wonderful," Remus says, meaning it. "I didn't know you'd tracked her down."

"I haven’t, I dunno if she's getting them.” He runs a restless hand through his hair, tumbled from the bedclothes. “I know she isn’t.”

"Ah."

"Told you it was stupid."

"It's really not."

"I've written her about once a month since the start of term,” Sirius says. “That's nine letters nobody will ever read. It's bloody stupid."

"I don't think so."

He folds up the parchment and stuffs it and the quill into his bedside cabinet. Seemingly at a loss for what to do with his hands, Sirius grabs his pillow and hugs it to his chest, knees up. The wandlight waves as he fidgets.

More uncomfortable silence. Remus wonders if he shouldn't try to go to the hospital wing after all. 

"Why was this moon so bad?" Sirius asks. His voice is pitched lower than it is during the day, a whisper without breathiness to it, a half-hum. Remus has always liked his voice.

“'Why’?" Remus says. He feels suddenly defensive; he feels as though he should be looking somewhere else. "They just are sometimes.”

"You said you have worse fulls when you’re in a bad mood to begin with."

He very much regrets telling Peter that. “That was just a theory. I reckon it’s at random, I’ve probably got nothing to do with it.”

Sirius watches him with hard, slate-coloured eyes. “You're lying again,” he says, low.

"Fine." He’s too tired to lie, and he feels odd tonight. He feels as though he's done something wrong. "You lot are getting along with the spell. I thought you'd have quit by now."

"You're upset because we're doing _well?_ Makes no sense, Moony."

“You're determined to make that nickname stick, aren't you?"

He smiles, mischievous, a flash of teeth in the dark. He does ‘mischievous’ better than anyone Remus has ever met. “Most definitely,” he says.

"I'm just worried, that's all,” Remus says. _I'm just riddled with guilt every single moment of every day_ , he doesn't say.

"You worry about everything."

"No I don't."

He quirks a dark eyebrow. “That's all it is?" 

"What else would it be?"

"I dunno,” Sirius says. “You did just get dumped."

“I don’t think it was that. I’m not upset about it, honestly,” Remus says. _Maybe I ought to be_ , he thinks. 

“Alright.”

“Like I said a few days ago-- it’s for the best."

"I hate it when you talk like that.” The tone of Sirius’ voice makes Remus look over: he's staring at him, brows furrowed, as if Remus were some line in an old Transfiguration tome he can't figure out. “As if you weren’t worth a bit of fuss."  


_I'm not_ is what almost falls out of his mouth, but Remus catches himself before he sounds too unforgivably self-pitying. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yeah you do, you bloody liar, you act as though you're some great burden, like you’ve always got to pretend you’re doing swell,” Sirius says. “You don't have to, y'know. You’ve got to stop making so much stuff up."

Remus smiles, wry. “Because it counts as secret-keeping? Can't break my oath, can I?"

"Sod the oath." 

Sirius swings his legs over the side of his mattress to face Remus fully. The wand closed in his fist throws deep shadows across his face as he clutches his pillow to his chest, like it's the only thing keeping him from throwing himself over the gap between their beds and shaking some sense into Remus. Or maybe strangling him. 

"When you feel like shit you deserve to be able to tell somebody about it,” he says. He’s all chiaroscuro in the dark dormitory, and Remus wants to drop his eyes but is having trouble managing it. “You don't deserve it in the first place, so you should at least get to complain."

At a loss, Remus says, “Thanks.”

He never knows how to handle Sirius when he's like this. He's so much sometimes. He’s so earnest and so close and so _much_ , and Remus becomes distantly aware that his palms are sweating.

"You deserve everything everybody else does. More than that,” Sirius says, forcibly, like he’ll fight Remus over it himself with his wand or his fists, and it’s so ridiculous that he feels momentarily hysterical. “You’re a bloody idiot if you think otherwise, and I won't let you forget it.”

Remus remembers how the first time he saw Sirius (eleven years old, sprawled across half a train compartment) he found his appearance a bit startling— black and white and grey, too sharp. He doesn’t look like other people, Remus saw that immediately. Now he knows that there’s a lot about Sirius that’s like that: charming, sure, but unusual enough to be this side of unsettling sometimes. He doesn’t talk like other people or walk like other people or act like other people; there’s a curious intensity to him while he’s just sitting still. It’s a lot to handle, because other people haven’t got that.

And he doesn’t treat Remus the way other people do. Other people’s eyes skip over Remus when there’s more interesting or attractive company around. Other people don’t rope him into schemes or shoot him knowing smirks across classrooms or talk to him as if he’s anything other than mild-mannered and bookish, and other people certainly don’t sit too close to him in the middle of the night and run him through with their eyes and tell him in a low, firm voice that everything he’s internalised about his own self-worth since he was five years old is wrong and he’d better deal with it. 

Halfway through the unbidden thought, _How did he happen_ , Remus decides he ought to leave.

“Yes, I’m sure you won’t,” he says. He gets out of bed, nearly running into Sirius’ knees in his hurry. His palms are still sweating. “Think I will go see Madam Pomfrey.” 

The wandlight goes out. Sirius’ voice is quiet in the pitch-darkness:

“Night, Moony.”

 

***

  


Peter estimates that the day of the prank lasts for about a thousand years. The four of them go over the plan one more time in hushed voices over dinner, too excited to eat much, and then Sirius splits off, Cloak at the ready, to eavesdrop for the Slytherins’ password. Peter, James, and Remus leave him in the Entrance Hall and head to the common room to wait.

They go up to their own dormitory at around eleven thirty to avoid suspicion, but they wait for a long time before getting their things together. Just one person staying up to finish their essay in the Slytherin  dungeon, and they’re doomed. It’s not until about one in the morning, long after the tower’s gone quiet for the night, that Sirius and James finally give the all-clear. They stuff their multitude of supplies into pillowcases, grab the Cloak, and creep down into the dark, silent common room. 

“Alright lads,” James whispers. He doesn’t see Sirius behind him, simultaneously mouthing _Alright lads_ in a silent but disturbingly accurate James impression. “You know the plan. Do your House proud.”

They clamber through the portrait hole into the dark corridor, bulging pillowcases in hand, and crowd underneath the Cloak. It’s been some time, though, since all four of them tried to squeeze under it at once. To an outside eye, four pairs of disembodied feet have taken up residence outside of Gryffindor Tower. 

Sirius groans. “Merlin’s _pants_ , who grew?”

“You’re the tallest one here, Black.”

“Don’t blame me, I’ve always been the tallest and we fit before.”

“It’s still got to be you, though, it doesn’t matter if any of us are taller, the tallest person's—”

Remus cuts him off: “Quiet!” 

At the end of the corridor there’s the unmistakable sound of footsteps, growing louder and louder. For a long moment they freeze, staring at each other. 

The sound starts to fade. “Going the other direction,” Remus whispers.

James and Sirius nod, but Peter doesn’t move. The icy feeling settling in his stomach is different from the familiar oh-no-Filch’s-coming-this-way feeling. It’s more like when you’re at home late at night with nobody else around and, for no reason at all, you begin to feel as though you’re not alone…

“That wasn’t Filch,” he says. “It was more people than that.”

“Just the echo, mate.” James starts them walking. “C’mon, we’re burning daylight.”

“When does that start? I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Awful joke, Moony,” Sirius says.

“‘Moony’?” James asks.

“Yeah, he hates it.”

“I love it.”

Remus groans. “Wonderful.”

They make it down four floors with their stuff, moving like some strange many-legged creature through the dark castle. It was much easier when they were smaller, Peter thinks. 

He’s jumpy tonight. Wandering around the school in the dark is hardly new territory, but the cold, _watched_ sensation from earlier hasn’t completely left him. Every little sound sets him on edge; the clanging snores from a nearby suit of armour make him jump so badly that he drops his pillowcase. 

“Get it together,” Sirius mutters. “Just a few more floors.”

Down the corridor, the dark silhouette of a statue makes Sirius pause. He holds up a hand to halt them, takes out his wand, and mutters, “ _Lumos_.” The light casts twisty shadows over the crannied stone face of the hunchbacked witch. 

“I was thinking, earlier.” He looks it over with a furrowed brow. “Isn’t it weird that out of all the statues we’ve tapped, _this_ is the one the Slytherins rigged? Why’s it special?”

James shuffles forward. “Huh. So…so, that—”

Around the corner up ahead, there’s a hoarse voice.

“Heard them, did you?”

Sirius extinguishes his light. 

“Running up and down the stairs, think they can wander at this hour,” says the whisper. “Oh, we’ll get them, alright…”

Unnecessarily, James hisses “ _Filch!”_ The yellow light of a lamp swings into view, arcing over the wall. “He’ll see our feet!”

Remus looks round at the other end of the corridor. “Too far to run.”

“Let’s hide,” Sirius whispers.

“Where, genius?” James fires back.

“The statue, come on—”

“There’s no room!”

“Have you got a better—”

“Down!” Peter whispers.

“What?” 

“ _Down!_ ” Gripping blindly, he takes handfuls of the others’ robes and pulls _._

All four of them fall to the floor in a heap with their heavy bags, the Cloak settling over them, at the exact moment Filch rounds the corner. With Mrs Norris trotting at his heels he swings the lamplight across their chunk of floor.

They hold their breaths. Peter swears Mrs Norris stares directly at him, but her master doesn’t take any notice. 

“Thinking they can hide if they split up, aren’t they? Hide in the dark. But they can’t…”

Muttering to himself all the while, Filch walks to the end of the corridor and out of sight.

“Nice one, Pete,” says Sirius.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” says Remus. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“About what?”

“Not sure,” he murmurs. “Something’s off. Keep moving.”

“Alright,” Sirius says as they finally step off of the grand staircase into the Entrance Hall. “The door’s just a blank wall, but you can tell where it is because there’s a suit of armour next to it that hasn’t got a head. You keep going through the dungeons until you see it.”

But that turns out to be easier said than done. Minutes go by as they wander the dark, cold dungeon passageways.

“Your stupid cousins didn't give you any other landmarks?”

“Than a headless suit or armour? I thought that’d be enough!”

“Merlin, how many dungeons does this bloody school have?” James says. “Don’t like the implication of that, not one—”

“What was that?” Remus says.

“Wh—”

Echoing faintly from around a corner, the footsteps are back. They come closer. Wandlight swings into view up ahead. 

“Shit!” James whispers, herding them aside. “Our feet! Here—” He ushers them behind some suits of armour. They tuck themselves out of sight as the footsteps clatter closer, closer, closer, and then: 

“He’s gonna love this,” somebody whispers, sarcastic.

“Got a prat for a brother, he knows it.”

Three older boys come round the corner. The one in the front has got his wand lit, sending light bouncing eerily off the walls. 

“Nott and Carrow,” Sirius mutters. “And…”

“Pucey," James adds. "Slytherin Seeker.”

The Slytherins come closer and closer before disappearing again, taking the corner directly to the right of their hiding place. James and Sirius shoot each other one of those looks that means they’re communicating telepathically; Peter feels himself tugged out from behind the armour and steered ahead.

They catch up with the boys easily, and Peter’s throat is squeezed with nerves that they’ll hear them coming up behind them or (his heart beats so fast he thinks somebody will hear it) turn around and _see their feet_ , oh Merlin. But they don’t. The boys march forward and they follow quietly behind, until finally the one with the lit wand (Nott, maybe?) stops in front of an unremarkable stretch of wall. 

“ _Nobilis_ ,” he says. A door slides open in the blank stone. The Slytherins walk through it and the group under the Cloak shuffle after them, crossing into the low-ceilinged room right before the hidden door closes again. 

“Shit,” James breathes.

The common room isn’t empty: six or seven boys sit around on the ornate, carved furniture, their faces cast in greenish light from the lamps on chains overhead. 

Their feet are still visible under the Cloak.

“Shit,” Sirius agrees. 

There’s nothing for it: once again Peter takes handfuls of the robes of whoever’s closest and tugs them all down to the cold stone floor. Somebody’s elbow catches him in the side, there’s a very near miss with Remus’ shoe, and James ends up half in Sirius’ lap. It’s getting quite stuffy under here, too.

Someone turns from the fireplace of low-burning embers to the newcomers. From the funny upward angle Peter can see that he’s older too, and his face is long, bony, and heavily freckled. “It takes three of you to get a letter?” the boy says.

The heavyset boy Peter reckons is Nott puts out his wandlight. There’s a smirk in his voice as he says, “Ran another little errand on the way down.”

“What?”

“You’ll see tomorrow.”

The lanky one James identified as Pucey looks over to somebody on the far side of the room. “Black especially will get a kick out of it.” 

Peter didn’t notice Regulus in here. He’s folded up on the high-backed sofa, looking strikingly small compared to the others, who Peter now sees must all be in sixth or seventh year. Regulus gives a nervous smile. “Er, alright?” he says.

On Regulus’ other side, a curly-haired boy with glasses gets up, impatient. “So?”

The third one snorts noisily. He’s short and scruffy-looking, with quite a lot of acne. “Same old shit,” he says.

Nott takes a sheet of parchment from his pocket and reads from it: “‘You and your friends should note that post isn’t a secure means of communication, and any information you divulge...’”

While Nott reads, at Peter's side he sees James mouth  _What do we do?_ to Sirius, who gives a harried shrug.  


“How it always is with them arseholes,” the scruffy boy says. “Telling us off like we’re little kids.”

“Don’t call my brother an arsehole, Carrow,” says the bloke by the fireplace.

“Call anybody an arsehole what’s being an arsehole, Rosier.”

“Is that all he said?” the one with glasses cuts in. “Nothing about the operation at all?”

“Won’t write a damn thing down,” Nott says. “We’ll know everything once we can get to a meeting over the holidays, but not till then.”

“Fine, you're right, Evan's an arsehole,” says Rosier. 

A blond boy sits forward in his armchair. “We could write somebody else? Yaxley?”

“You stupid, Rab?” says Carrow. “Nobody tells him nothing.” There are scattered snickers around the room.

“Yeah, he’s too busy doing nothing useful at the _Prophet_ ,” Rosier says, rolling his eyes.

Meanwhile under the Cloak, James and Sirius are having a frantic, silent conversation. It’s close quarters, so Peter can’t make out much, but he does see James mouth _What do we do?_ a few more times.

“‘Nothing useful’?” says the glasses boy. “He’s got all our people in the _Prophet_ steering things, hasn’t he? He’s just about got Higgs sacked— you know how much they all just bloody loved her round there, wanted to promote her.”

“Interfering bitch,” Pucey says. “Always hated her.”

“Only ’cause she preferred shagging Frank Longbottom to looking twice at you,” Nott says. Pucey drops into an armchair, scowling. 

“He got one blood traitor demoted, big deal,” Rosier says. “The shit they sneak into the back pages…Merlin, you read that stuff, what they say about us? Called us a _terrorist sect_ , and he lets them. It’s disgraceful.” 

“He’s done a hell of a lot more for us than some of the deadweights on the outside have.”

Carrow sniggers. “What’s your crush on Yaxley, Wilkes?” More scattered laughter.

“All I’m saying is he’s kept a lot of stuff quiet, hasn’t he?” Wilkes protests. “Think we could’ve gotten the Wizengamot if the Sylvia Bones story had got out? 

“Oh, forgot about that one,” Pucey says, grinning. “What was it they wrote, again?”

“‘Dragon pox’.”

Everyone in the room laughs. Even Regulus, who’s kept curled up and silent, cracks a smile.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Carrow says. “’Lecto and I were there for that one. Old hag shrieked her head off, was right hilarious. They bleed that much from dragon pox, do they?” 

More laughter. 

Peter’s stomach drops out. He looks back to his friends huddled under the Cloak. Remus and James stare at each other in horror; Sirius’ face has gone bloodless. 

“Be that as it may,” says Rosier, leaning against the carved mantelpiece, arms crossed importantly, “I’m tired of the baby steps. Tonight’s operation is a move in the right direction, but it’s not enough.”

Nott looks at him, incredulous. “Breaking into the Ministry’s a ‘baby step’?”

Peter feels James grip him by the arm, hard.

“Nobody’s told us what the mission’s for,” Wilkes says. “How do you know it’s not enough if you don’t even know what they’re up to?”

“Because they’re doing it in the middle of the night in secret. They’re still messing around and not doing what ought to be done.”

“Which is?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” says Rosier. 

“Clearly not, _professor_ ,” Nott says, “so get on with it and stop being a wanker.” 

Everybody laughs. Rosier rolls his eyes.

“Overthrow the Ministry. Obviously.”

On Peter’s right side, James mouths so furiously that it becomes a faint whisper: _What the bloody hell is going on?_

Wilkes snorts. “You’re daft.”

“Dad reckons we could’ve done it three years ago,” Rosier goes on. “This whole deal of putting our people in one by one, getting the odd higher-up under Imperius— it’ll take ages! What’re they waiting for? What’s stopping the Dark Lord from acting now?”

Peter looks around at the others. He catches Sirius mouthing to James: _the what?_

Nott pipes up. “Who, more like.”

“Huh?” says Pucey.

“Oh, come on. Everybody knows the Dark Lord’s scared of the old bastard.”

“Bite your tongue,” Rosier says. 

“Holier-than-thou all you want, Hector, you know it’s true.”

Regulus’ voice is tentative: “Wait, what?”

Nobody acknowledges him; Hector Rosier and Nott keep arguing.

“He’s a stupid old man who’s shut himself up in this Mudblood cesspool for the past fifty years, and the Dark Lord is—”

“Is frightened of him, and everybody knows it! Nothing’s gonna get done while he’s still around. I’m with you, we shouldn’t keep waiting to take the Ministry, but there’s one big job to do first.”

“Job?” Regulus says. “What job?”

Nott tosses him an answer over his shoulder: “Sending our dear old headmaster the same way as Sylvia Bones, that’s what job.”

“But…wh—what?” Regulus stammers. “The Dark Lord…he’s frightened of _him?”_

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rosier snaps, then wheels back on Nott. “And I’ll thank _you_ not to fill the heads of the—”

Nott cuts him off again. “Young Master Black, you’ve heard of Gellert Grindlewald?”

“Nott, I’m warning you—”

“Then, then what’re we waiting for?” Regulus says, sitting up straight now. “We keep talking about how we want the rest of the group to take us more seriously, so why aren’t we—”

“You want to kill the greatest wizard of the last century? None of us could pull it off, we’d be stupid to try. Besides, the Dark Lord wants to do it himself," Nott says. "I’m sure of it.”

“But we’re _right here_ , we’re right under h—”

“That’s enough!” Rosier says. Regulus shuts his mouth mid-word and slumps back into the cushions again. 

Rosier crosses his arms, and the way he looks down at the figure on the sofa is distinctly paternal. “It’s great you’re excited, Black, but you haven’t got any idea what you’re talking about. All we can do from this castle is what we’ve been doing: keep correspondence, recruit.” He glances over at Nott, quirks an eyebrow. “Keep important people on our side.”

Regulus starts to say something, but he’s interrupted by Wilkes leaping to his feet. “Hey!”

Peter does a double-take: Rosier's on fire. Flames lick up the hem of his robes with unnatural speed, and the room falls into chaos. 

Peter’s hauled to his feet. The four of them sprint for the door with the Cloak flapping around their ankles and fall into the corridor, the stone wall slides shut on the noise and commotion of the common room, and just before darkness closes over them, Peter sees Remus return his wand to his pocket.

“Good thinking,” says Peter.

“Thanks,” says Remus.

“Holy shit,” says James.

“Yeah,” says Sirius.

They run.

  


***

  


“What the hell?”

“Yeah.”

“No, really, _what the hell?”_

They run through the dungeon passageways, un-Cloaked, threat of detention forgotten.

“I know,” Sirius says.

“I sure as shit don’t!” James exclaims. “Would somebody explain to me what just happened?”

Face forward, Sirius says, “There’s this group. Reg’s in it.”

“ _What?_ ”

“He called it an ‘activist society’.”

“Yeah, sounds pretty damn active to me!” James says. “They kill people! They _kill p—_ ”

“Shut the fuck up, James!” he snarls. He hits the end of the corridor first and takes off up the stairs toward the ground floor. 

James falters, then looks round to Remus and Peter. With a wild desperation Peter's never seen on him, he says, “What's happening?”

He and Remus can only gape at him. He turns again and runs after Sirius. They follow. 

“Hey, where’re you—”

They clatter up the narrow staircase in single file, Sirius in the lead, and they’ve just stumbled out into the pitch-dark Entrance Hall when he rounds on them. 

“I didn’t tell you lot because it was none of your business!” Sirius says. “I know we’re not to keep secrets but it wasn’t a bloody _secret_ , it just wasn’t any concern of any of yours that my little brother’s mixed up in— in— Merlin, I don’t even know what.”

“But…but it’s…” James pants, clutching his side. “But it’s bad?”

“Obviously it’s bad, stupid, you heard what they said in there!” Sirius barks. He takes a deep, collecting breath. “Muggles, they target Muggles. He rambled at me something about…about fighting back, not having to hide, I dunno— it’s bad.”

“And it isn’t just students,” Remus says.

He shakes his head. “You heard ’em. Ages ago Malcolm told me to look in the back of the paper, and that— that somebody’s ‘recruiting’, and—”

“Hey,” Peter says. In the darkness, his eye catches on something. He points. “What’s that?”

They all turn in the direction of his hand. “ _Lumos_ ,” says Remus.

Light flickers across the hall, and Peter startles. It’s graffiti, but the oddest graffiti he’s ever seen. The paint is vivid green, and it must be magical: it pulses faintly, glowing against the dark stone walls. And it’s enormous— letters taller than he is, reaching up for the fathomless ceiling. Next to the entrance to the Great Hall are the huge green words _DEFEND MAGIC_. On the wall opposite: _EAT DEATH_.

James stares, mouth hanging open. “What…I don’t…”

And then Sirius is striding out into the middle of the hall. Back to them, he lights his wand and lowers it toward the flagstone floor, and he’s thrown into sharp and unearthly shadow against the light, a faint green glow illuminating the dark outline of him. There’s more graffiti under his feet: not words, but a drawing of a skull with a snake emerging from its mouth. He stands right in the middle of it, shoulders rigid.

“I’ve seen that,” Remus says. “Where have I seen that?”

“Fourth floor bathroom,” Sirius answers. He stands stock still with his wand and eyes trained on the pictured under his shoes, transfixed. 

James is rattled, face paling in the greenish light. “I’m starting to get really freaked out here, so if somebody could come up with _some_ kind of bloody explanation, that’d be swell.”

Still he doesn’t move. Lit from below in pulsating green, silhouetted in the huge dark room, he doesn’t look quite human. 

From Peter’s other side comes Remus’ soft voice: “What is that thing, Sirius?”

He turns. “ _Nox_.” The light’s sucked away. A faint green radiance hangs in the blackness. 

Sirius makes for the stairs. “McGonagall,” he says. 

  


***

 

She doesn’t appreciate being woken up at two in the morning by frantic hammering on her study door. Not a bit.

“Four students out of bed in one night!” Professor McGonagall says from the doorway, looming over them in her hairnet and tartan dressing gown. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“You haven’t?” says James.

"You can expel us in a bit, just hear us out first,” Sirius says.

She's beside herself. "Lupin! You couldn't have put a stop to this?”

“I’m sorry, Professor, it's an emergency." Remus says. "I know it sounds mad but something’s going on and somebody’s got to know.”

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Remus casts a nervous glance up and down the dark corridor. “I think, er," he says quietly. “I think we ought to come in.”

Maybe it's the shock of the whole thing-- four students showing up at her door in the middle of the night and asking to be expelled, and inviting her into her own study to boot-- but she doesn't argue. Stepping back, she gestures them in. "This had better be good."

As soon as the door is shut behind them, all four start speaking at once.

"Rosier— they got this letter--"

"Somebody got Alice fired, or, or they were trying to--"

"The Ministry, Professor, they said they had 'their people'--"

"Stop." She breathes in slowly, nostrils flaring. "Lupin. You start."

"Professor, someone's going to break into the Ministry of Magic,” he says, calm as anything. “Tonight, that is. "

"Excuse me?"

"We were in the Slytherin common room and we— er— overheard some of them discussing a group outside the school they're in correspondence with. The plan is to break in to the Ministry, they're doing it as we speak."

She inhales again. "Listen to me. I don't know why you were in the Slytherin common room—”

James puffs up importantly. “That’s neither h—”

“—or what you thought you heard, but—”

"They painted stuff outside the Great Hall!” Sirius cries. "We're not making this up!"

"Black, I recommend you--"

Peter blurts, “Sylvia Bones.”

Professor McGonagall looks down at him, startling, as though she’d forgotten he was there. “What?”

"Th—they said they killed her,” Peter stammers. “It—it was in the papers that she died of dragon pox, but she didn’t. They said they did it."

She goes quiet. She peers at them over the top of her spectacles, mouth a thin line. Then she says, "Which students were these?"

“Carrow, he talked about Sylvia Bones," Peter says. “I don’t know all their names. Rosier was in charge, I think, and he talked about his brother. Also Avery and Nott, and Wilkes was there and Pucey, and R—”

Sirius steps on his foot, hard. 

“—and that was it."

"And what, exactly, did they say?"

“They got a letter from Rosier’s brother,” James says. “I reckon he’s in charge of the thing tonight. He wouldn’t tell them what they’re doing at the Ministry, but—”

"They mentioned..." Remus seems properly nervous for the first time since they stepped in. "Rosier made mention of some kind of leader. He had, er, a title of some sort."

“And,” she says, slowly, “what did he say about him?"

“Th—that he, er. That he wants to overthrow the Ministry,” Peter says. It feels ridiculous now. “Also that he, er—”

"They talked about the headmaster," Remus says. 

So abruptly that it startles him, Professor McGonagall turns for the door. “I’ll tell Mr Filch about the vandalism. Where was it, Black?"

“Entrance Hall, but Professor--"

“Get to your dormitories at once." 

She's already leaving her study, door ajar behind her. They follow her out, exchanging nervous glances. Her back is to the them as she strides away, footsteps coming fast in the silent corridor. 

"Professor, aren't you going to punish us?"

She turns around. “Oh. Yes, of course. Twenty-five points each. Now go."

And she exits onto the nearest stairway, climbing up without a second glance. 

For a moment they all stand there in silence. Then Peter says, "Filch's office is on the ground floor, isn't it?"

"Yeah," James says.

“Where’s she going, then?” Peter says.

"Let's go," Remus says. "We got off easy, we shouldn't push it."

None of them try to argue with him that a hundred points from Gryffindor isn’t ‘easy’, and on the way back to Gryffindor Tower nobody says a word. They creep up the pitch-dark stairs to their dormitory, change their clothes, and climb into bed. 

It’ll be years before Peter learns that there are two types of days you remember for the rest of your life. One type you recognise for what it is as it’s happening. Graduations and weddings and births and funerals, that sort of thing— the days that are ostentatious in their importance, self-conscious about it. And then there are the ones that slip by unnoticed, the ones you have no reason at the time to suspect you’ll remember but you always will; for years and years you will. 

Most of them are the second type. They sneak up on you.

  


***

  


The next morning is…tense.

“Well,” James says, “reckon she was telling the truth about finding Filch.”

The Entrance Hall looks like it always does, with no trace of the glowing green paint anywhere. The usual black-robed morning swarm flows into the Great Hall like always, chattering and laughing, as if the walls were never anything but blank grey stone. 

James doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s an odd sensation. Everything that happened last night seems completely mad now in the daylight. It feels like they dreamt it. A super secret plot to overthrow the Ministry that they, four third years, bravely intercepted by means of the dumbest coincidence ever? Merlin, it sounds stupid now. 

“Oy, Potter!” 

James turns. Davey stands with his fellow Beater, Hazel Flume, by the House points hourglasses. In fact, a small crowd has gathered around the Gryffindor hourglass. They all look rather unhappy.

Right. Guess last night wasn’t a dream, then.

“This was you lot, wasn’t it?”

“Er,” James says.

“A hundred points down!” Hazel cries. “What’d we win against Slytherin for, huh?”

“For the honour and glory of your House, Flume, geez,” James says. He gives the other three a nudge toward the Great Hall, muttering, “Moving along, then, come on…”

“McGonagall woke Filch up at some point, fine,” Sirius says lowly as they walk to the far end of the Gryffindor table. The enchanted ceiling is indifferently overcast overhead. “But I’d bet all the gold in Gringotts that he wasn’t her first stop.” They slide onto their seats and Sirius leans across the table to mutter, “She went to tell somebody.”

Remus gives a noncommittal hum. “What’ve we got first?”

“You and I have got Care of Magical Creatures,” Sirius says. “Like we have every Friday for the past eight months. She must’ve believed us, you saw the look on her face— almost forgot to take points away! _McGonagall_ forgot to punish us. It properly startled her, you know it did.”

Remus forks fried tomatoes onto his plate. “I think we’re working with nifflers today. Should be a breeze for us, after first year’s Halloween prank.”

“Remember that big one that about took James’ fingers off?” Peter says. “Remember that, Sirius?”

He isn’t paying them attention, looking instead up at the milky grey sky. “When’ll the post get here? I’ll bet you something happened and they’ve stuck a tiny article about it in the way back. Bet you my whole damn inheritance they have.”

Across the table, Remus gives James a look and a barely-there shrug. _Well, I tried._

The post owls fly in a few minutes later. A letter drops in for James, and meanwhile Sirius scrambles for the first _Daily Prophet_ that touches down within arm’s reach. He discards the first half of the paper, tossing it aside to land on James’ bacon, and flips through the back pages. 

James puts aside his letter to get rid of the newspaper. He’s about to crush it into a grease-smudged ball when the front page catches his eye. He unfolds it and reads.

“Er,” he says.

“Madam Malkin’s is having a sale,” Sirius says, sardonic. “Great, glad we know _that._ ”

“Black,” James says. “Pay up.”

“What?”

He passes the paper over. Sirius reads it. “Holy shit.”

At the same time, Remus and Peter say, “What?”

“‘ _Trespass at Ministry_ ’,” Sirius reads. “ _‘Unidentified individuals are to appear before the Wizengamot this week charged with trespass and attempted robbery at the Ministry of Magic last night, 11_ _ th _ _of April. The individuals, whose identities are still unknown, were arrested by Ministry of Magic officials at two o’clock in the morning. Sources within the Ministry say the officials were acting on an outside tip’_ — an ‘outside tip,’” Sirius says. “We know who that was, don’t we?”

“We get it, keep going,” James says.

“‘ _Reports that the apprehended individuals were members of the group that calls itself the ‘Death Eaters’ are yet to be unsubstantiated.’_ ” Sirius raises his eyebrows. “Bloody stupid name.”

James snorts an agreement. “Awfully faux-edgy.”

“It’s on the front,” Sirius says. He’s looking at the newspaper in disbelief. “It’s…on the front.”

Remus reaches across the table, takes the paper, and looks it over for a moment. “Look at the by-line.”

Peter leans in. “‘ _A. Higgs_ ’. Alice— how’d she do it, you think? Get it on the front, I mean?”

“Who knows.”

“Will she be alright? I’ll bet they aren’t pleased.”

“She’ll be fine, I’m sure,” Remus says. “She always seemed tough, didn’t she? She’ll be okay.”

“Let’s hope the worst she’ll get is sacked,” Peter says. 

James doesn’t like the way this conversation is going. “Don’t talk like that, c’mon.”

“You remember what they said.”

Yeah, he does. It stuck in his head, the stuff they said so casually around the Slytherin fireplace last night, and remembering it makes him sick to his stomach. “Look,” James says, “let’s keep in mind who was talking, yeah? You trust those arseholes to be telling the truth? The break-in was real, sure, but it could be that they made some of the other parts up to impress their slithery little friends, couldn’t it?”

“Suppose so,” Sirius says. He doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“We’ve got Charms second, right?” Remus says. “Did you lot do the reading? I never finished it.”

James leaves him to tactfully changing the subject and opens his letter. It’s from Dad, and James gets about two sentences in before leaping from his seat with a cry of excitement.

“This’ll cheer you up!” he tells Sirius. He holds the letter up in triumph. “Dad got tickets! We’re going to the World Cup!”

Sirius' jaw drops. “Really?”

“Yeah, look!”

He takes the letter. “Geneva…where’s that?”

“Switzerland,” Remus answers.

His eyes go even wider. “I…I’ve never left London. Except to come here, I mean, but…” A grin spreads over his face. “Woah. Switzerland.”

“Who cares where it is, it’s the _Quidditch World Cup!_ ” James cries. 

James allows himself a brief dance of victory in the aisle beside the table, and everybody who gives him funny looks is only jealous. Then he drops back onto the bench, launches into a full description of the leading countries’ teams and who he reckons will win and who got caught with Felix Felicis last year and who he reckons ought to sack their Seeker, all the while thanking Merlin and Morgana and whoever else that things are back to normal, and that his best friend is smiling again. 

  


***

  


The year rolls towards a close. That strange, disquieting night in April fades more and more from their minds as the term wraps up and the weather grows warmer, their teachers pile them with homework before exam time, and Sirius and James celebrate Sirius’ fourteenth birthday by charming half the doorknobs in the school to scream when touched. Meanwhile, Remus feels…odd.

It’s nothing. 

It’s just that something about him and Sirius feels off. Shifted a bit. He doesn’t give it much thought, because it’s really nothing. Friendships evolve; it’s perfectly normal. 

His dynamic with Sirius has always been a bit…different, maybe. The bonds he has with James and Peter formed hesitantly at first, but grew sturdy over a period of months. It’s striking Remus lately, though, that it wasn’t like that with Sirius. It’s as if their closeness just _happened_ one day. The easy intimacy of the early years of their friendship still informs the way they are now. James, for example, is the one who gets the most righteously worked up about werewolf-related injustices, but Sirius is always the first to pick up on an approaching bad moon, the first to notice a new scar. 

They’re just like that. It’s not a big deal. And it doesn’t matter that every now and then ridiculous thoughts try to worm their way to the front of Remus’ consciousness, because he can easily dismiss them. They’re never clear thoughts, anyway, just half-formed feelings; he won’t give them words because they’re nothing, just misfires in his brain, floated up from the discard pile. 

It’s just…

There’s that thing about himself, the one that doesn’t count as a secret because it doesn’t matter because he would never ever act on it, that he’s already busy ignoring. Just because he’s capable of…of being _inclined_ a certain way, as it were— it doesn’t mean anything. He’s already a werewolf, he’s facing quite enough discrimination to be getting along with as it is, so since this fact about himself by definition presents him with two options, he’ll stick to the easier of the two. Door Number One, he’ll go with that. Door Number Two can stay shut, he can ignore it. He ignores it. 

But—

“Hey, Earth to Moony.”

He turns around to see the other three further down the corridor, staring at him from the top of the staircase. He forgot to stop walking. 

“Er,” he says. “Sorry.” 

They leave out the front doors into a warm, breezy summer day. It’s the last weekend of term and, with no homework to worry about, most of the school is out on the grounds. The four of them are enjoying a nice walk (or, rather, Remus and Peter are; Sirius leapt onto James’ back and cried “Mush!” a few minutes ago and James is having trouble shaking him) when they spot a group of their friends, a cluster of fourth year Gryffindor boys, congregated some ways off from the base of the Whomping Willow.

Davey sees them first and waves them over. “Oy, Potter, Black!” he calls. “You’ll be wanting to see this!”

Sirius clambers off of James and they all run over. Casey Jordan faces the tree with a steely expression while Dirk claps him encouragingly on the shoulder.

“Is he going to wrestle it, then?” Sirius says.

Davey grins. “Close. It’s the Willow Game.”

“Never heard of it,” says James.

“You wouldn’t’ve,” says Dirk. “Seeing as we’ve only just made it up.”

The objective of the Willow Game, Davey and Dirk explain, is to reach this knot at the base of the Willow’s trunk that actually, believe it or not, _freezes_ the tree (Remus nods along as if this were new information) and poke it, all while dodging the tree’s attacks. If a branch touches you, your go is over. 

“And if you get pummeled to death,” Casey tells them merrily, “you lose.”

James and Sirius, of course, love it. And that’s how Remus gets to sitting on the grass, watching his peers take turns sprinting pell-mell at a murderous tree. 

The Willow Game is exciting, Remus gives it that. It’s quite the spectator sport, and the racket is comparable to any Quidditch game. Within ten minutes, though, it becomes clear that it’s much harder than anybody anticipated. Remus watches Victor Hopkirk nearly get his knees taken out executing a daring leap, Marco Whitby get sideswiped within his first five seconds, Roger Ackerly argue that a branch touching his hair doesn’t count, and Ned Dawlish narrowly avoid a concussion by doing a sort of lopsided pirouette. Each loss brings a tide of groans and jeers from the gathering crowd. 

During Davey’s second try Remus mutters to Peter, “How much longer d’you think until one of our dynamic duo insists on giving it a go?”

Peter opens his mouth but for a moment no sound comes out. His eyes have snapped up to something over Remus’ shoulder. “Not long now, I think.” 

Remus turns around. Coming up the grassy hill toward the Willow is a group of girls, and even from here Remus catches a flash of red hair.

“Oh bollocks,” he says, with feeling. 

He prays to any deities that might be listening that Davey manages to poke the knot and end the game. No such luck: Lily and her friends reach the crest of the hill just in time to see Davey avoid a violent clotheslining, only to get knocked over at the ankles by a single leafy tendril and faceplant in the dirt. 

“What _are_ you lot doing?”

Davey pushes himself to his elbows, beaming even as he spits away a leaf stuck to his face, hair standing on end. Davey really is a magnificently consistent creature, Remus reflects. “It’s the Willow Game!” he shouts. “Somebody’s going to win it eventually!”

“I—what—”

Before Lily can produce more than a few confused syllables, James jumps to his feet. He rakes a hand through his hair and proclaims, “I’ll go next!”

“It’s not your go yet,” says Dirk, “we’ve still got—”

“Whatever, I’m going.” And he marches through the crowd toward the Willow.

Remus looks to either side. Peter has got his hands over his eyes, and Sirius is pretending with great melodrama to vomit into his book bag. Neither of them are helpful.

_Well,_ Remus thinks, _I guess James gets beaten up by a tree today._

James draws himself up like an Olympic athlete about to take the high dive. Meanwhile, Sirius resurfaces from his bag. “Has he always got to be such a show-off in front of her?” he hisses to Remus. “He’s nowhere near as coordinated as any of that lot! He’s impressive on a broom, sure, but you’ve seen him on the ground, he’s useless!”

James leaps. The Willow wastes no time in swinging a thick branch towards his head, but he falls to the ground and rolls out of the way just in time; the spectators cheer and James beams. He radiates confidence as he springs upright again, dodging a few thin but belligerent vines on the way up. He turns on the spot, bends sharply backwards at the waist when a branch comes whistling overhead, the cheers grow louder— and an errant twig knocks his glasses to the dirt.

James argues, but there’s nothing for it; Dirk, the official Willow Game referee, declares it an out and that’s that. Amongst jeers and laughter he comes back to his spot on the grass, quietly fuming. 

Sirius is breathless from laughing. “That’s what you get for being a show-off, mate!” he gasps. “Nothing like a good dussing-out by a plant to humble you before a pretty redhead, eh?”

“A _what?_ I don’t know what you’re insinuating, Black, but there are _plenty_ of girls over there and—”

“Yes, yes, alright, you don’t, whatever.” He drapes an arm over James’ shoulders. “I’m just saying, endangering your life to impress a girl is pretty stupid.”

“You’re pretty stupid,” James mumbles. 

Remus is so relieved that no one’s dead or concussed that he actually laughs. “Don’t worry, it was _plenty_ impressive.” He cuffs him on the arm. “Very brave and dashing and all that.”

James nods soberly. “Thanks, Moony.”

Out of nowhere, Sirius stands. “Me next.”

“What?” James says, appalled. “Who’s a show-off now?”

“Who would I be showing off for, stupid?” Sirius lopes off to the front and, oh God, here we go again. 

He knows it’s useless, but Remus calls after him anyway. “I thought we’d just decided this was dangerous and idiotic?” 

To his surprise, Sirius actually turns around. “So it’s got my name written all over it, hasn’t it?” He grins that smirking grin of his, the one that causes Remus all sorts of worry. “Besides, I’ve got to stay impressive.”

Either Remus is imagining things or Sirius drops him a wink before he turns back around. He’s probably imagining things. Sirius _winking_ at him would be as out of place as, for instance, Remus getting a thought-the-last-step-was-lower-than-it-was-and-I-dropped-farther-onto-the-landing-than-I-thought-I-would feeling while sitting on a hill with his friends.

The crowd has grown again, people wandering over to see what all the shouting is about. Sirius, though, doesn’t seem intimidated. If anything, he smiles more broadly as he crosses the grass toward the Willow.

“Oy, Black!” Casey calls. “When you get squashed, can I have your inheritance?”

Everyone laughs when Sirius, back to his audience, hoists up his arm and jabs two fingers toward the sky. Then he takes a great lunge towards the tree.

Remus suspects that the Whomping Willow is more sentient than he’s ever given it credit for (and he’s given it credit for a lot), because with every contestant in the Willow Game the tree seems to attack quicker and more ferociously than the last. Sirius barely steps over the midway point when a branch as thick as a Roman column hurtles toward him. A gasp rises up from the crowd but Sirius sidesteps the branch easily, letting it smack the ground with a booming _thud_. He turns around to throw a lazy grin to the onlookers. And Remus is sure that the Willow must be at least somewhat conscious, because that clearly makes it angry. 

A chorus of shouts cues Sirius to duck at the last second, and the smile slips off his face as two branches at once fly overhead and blow his hair in their wake, and he flings himself just out of the way of the first branch, rebounding with new vigour at his head—

Peter says, “I can’t watch.” He hides his face in his sleeve.

Remus wants to do the same but he can’t tear his eyes away, like how you can’t look away from a car wreck— but it isn’t a car wreck, not yet, anyway. Sirius dances out of the way of branch after branch while the crowd gets louder and louder; people stick to shouts and gasps and cheers, but then his time keeps dragging out further and further and everybody collectively realises that Sirius has been out there longer than anyone yet, and all at once people begin to follow Casey’s lead, catcalling and cajoling to jinx him:

“Black! Hey, think fast!”

“Miss it! Miss it!”

But Sirius’ focus doesn’t shake; he weaves backward and forwards, steadily closer to the trunk and its knot. They hear him let out a shout of laughter as he springs up from a dive, and even the cacophony of _Black! Black! Blaaaack!_ rising from the crowd doesn’t throw him, he’s unshakeable— 

And then from the top of the tree a branch comes plummeting down directly toward him and Remus knows he sees it and has it under control but he can’t help it: without his permission Remus’ mouth shouts out, “ _Sirius!_ ” and Sirius turns.

The pause is barely a heartbeat, but it’s enough. His eyes snap onto Remus’, the half-second hanging suspended, and a branch sweeps over the ground at Sirius’ right and slams into him. Hard.

He flies backwards and the crowd screams; his back smacks against the Willow’s trunk. He’s pinned there with the breath knocked out of him and there’s a moment where everyone sees the gnarled end of a branch rushing straight for him but can do nothing about it, he’s slumped and immobile and much too far away and as the loudest racket yet comes up from the crowd they see Sirius fling his hand out to the side and smash it in a fist against the knot and, before their eyes, the Willow freezes. The branch creaks to an instant halt a hand’s breadth from Sirius’ face.

Even from this distance, Remus sees him grin. 

It’s pandemonium after that. Over the cheering and applause all across the hill Dirk declares that, with the referee powers vested in him, Sirius is their first official Willow Game winner, despite very much having had contact with a branch. It was such a cool show that nobody wants to disagree, although Victor Hopkirk looks a bit surly. James, Peter, and Remus (who got to his feet in there somewhere, he can’t remember when that happened) take off across the grass to the motionless Willow. 

“That was spectacular! Stuff of legend!” James crows. He puts a supporting arm around Sirius, who rolls his eyes and shoves him away.

“Don’t be daft, I’m fine,” he says, though he sounds distinctly hoarse. 

“You sure, mate? You did just get walloped in the chest with about a thousand kilos of angry tree.”

Sirius aims a weak kick at him. “Sod off, Mum.” 

The other two head back to the spectators, but for some reason Remus’ feet aren’t moving. He turns around to Sirius as he lopes over, swinging dark hair out of his eyes with a toss of his head. He stops right in front of Remus and stands there with his arms crossed, giving him this _look_ from under his eyelashes. It’s a look like Remus has done something unintentionally hilarious: a smug, indulgent expression that makes Remus a particular sort of nervous, a fluttery flipping in his stomach like he’s about to take a Potions exam he didn’t study for. 

Remus tries to talk.

“That was, er.” He tries again. “That was, you were very…”

Sirius quirks his eyebrows and says, “Impressive?”

Before Remus can answer (in fairness, it probably would’ve taken a while), Sirius laughs. He pushes past him, knocking two of their shoulders, and saunters off to the others to accept high fives.

Remus stands there for a second, in the no man’s land in the shadow of the Willow. 

“Erm,” he says to nobody at all. Then he runs back to join the crowd.

  


***

  


Their second day at the Cup, a letter shows up at the Potters’ tent for Sirius.

  


_Dear Sirius,_

  


_I hope this reaches you. The family warned me not to write to you. I’m sure they’re having any correspondence of ours, in or out, intercepted at Hogwarts; they have their ways, as I’m sure you know. Your mother told me I would be a bad influence on you. I said, ‘Rather late for that, isn’t it?’ but she didn’t think it was funny._

_It was pure luck I heard you were going to the Cup, and I’m so glad I did. Finally you’re someplace where they can’t intercept my letters! It’s a very good thing, because there’s something I’ve got to talk to you about._

_I don’t know if you’ve been reading the papers or if you’ve heard about the Death Eaters. I don’t want to alarm you, but they’re an extremely dangerous group and I have it from the inside that they’ve been recruiting at Hogwarts. I’m not worried about you— they wouldn’t let you in if you begged, you being the way you are. Your reputation precedes you, and I’m the proudest cousin in the world._

_It’s Regulus I wanted to warn you about. I know he’s only going to be a second year but they start the brainwashing young, it’s how these people operate. Most of all, though, they’re going to want a Black. A name like ours is valuable in their circles, and they’ll want the connections. Since they can’t get you, I’d bet a thousand Galleons they’ll try to swoop in on him. He’s very young and he’s never had the same rebelliousness you and I developed from our cradles. He likes to be liked, Regulus— he wants to please people, and they’ll sniff that out fast. I also believe he’s much cleverer than any of our family (including us) ever gave him credit for. They’ll smell that too._

_I expect you’ve been paying attention. You’re smart and I trust you can sense how the wind’s blowing, but I’m sorry to say that the Prophet’s mostly useless. It’s been compromised, and the Ministry isn’t eager to intervene. I picked up a lot from my dad before I left, and I heard a lot of the talk between him and his Ministry pals. Let me tell you that there are plenty on the inside who believe it’s time for radical change, and they’ll let just about anybody take over to get it._

_I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you when I left. If I had known they were going to find out about me and Ted so soon I would’ve written, warned you, but it was a surprise for us too. I don’t know how it was when you found out, but I’m sorry it wasn’t from me. I’ll figure out some way for us to keep in touch until you’ve graduated, and then they won’t have any more say in what you do._

_I can’t wait for you to meet Ted, you’d like him very much. I think you’d like my daughter too. Nymphadora’s fifteen months old and already she’s as high-spirited as her dad— she barely sits still long enough for us to sleep! She’s got my mum’s eyes, or at least she usually has._

  


(Sirius goes over that sentence a few times, thinking he must’ve read it wrong.)

  


_I only hope that whatever else she got from our side was good— with any luck she’ll have gotten whatever gene it was that gave you and I our awful attitudes. I hope you get to meet them both very soon._

  


_You’ll hear from me again. That’s a promise._

  


_With love,_

_Andromeda_

  


***

 

  


  


_Art by formofmodernart.tumblr.com:_

  


  


  


  


  



	9. too much too soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This spell is…”
> 
> “A bitch?”
> 
> “Yeah, about sums it up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues the recent saga of Shit Getting Real, but I can promise that after this one comes about three chapters of tomfoolery and nonsense. I'm looking forward to it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

 

 

***

 

The first line is a harried scribble, the second quick and calligraphic:

 

_To REMUS “SMART MOUTH” LUPIN, alias MISTER MOONY,_

_Via this owl we found on the campsite that will probably die before it reaches him_

 

Remus smiles and rips open the envelope. There are two letters folded together, and the first is from James.

 

_Remus,_

_WE’RE AT THE WORLD CUP. I realise, of course, that you know this, as I mentioned it once or twice before term’s end_

Sirius circled the words “once or twice” and drew an arrow to the margin, where he’s added _Read: Twelve Thousand Million Times_.

_but it’s worth repeating, because WE’RE AT THE WORLD CUP!!!_

_We got here just in time for the Semi-Finals with England and Argentina, and I’m saddened to report that our countrymen got pummeled. Sirius says my comments were tiresome_

Another note in Sirius’ handwriting: _He wouldn’t shut up_

_but their strategical issues were so obvious a CHILD, or even SIRIUS BLACK, could’ve seen them, had he been PAYING ATTENTION and not FIDDLING WITH MY OMNIOCULARS FOR THE ENTIRE GAME. But anyway, Syria and the Netherlands played for third a few days ago and that was a right blast, close as anything. Syria’s technique is good, but they just don’t have the lineup the Netherlands have got._

 

There’s quite a bit of Quidditch-speak after that: the histories of Syria’s player lineup and the Netherlands’, comparisons between them both. Remus can be forgiven for skimming a bit.

 

_We’re having LOADS of fun in Geneva. There’s a lot of magical history stuff Mum’s really into here, and Sirius has been helping us get around with his French like the PONCY POSH MONSTROSITY he is_

Circled in the margin: _Vous pouvez naviguer seul la prochaine fois, branleur_

_and it’s been a great time. The campsite’s right next to this really huge lake and it’s pretty and everything but it hasn’t got a Giant Squid or ANYTHING COOL at all, so really what’s the point?_

_Mum and Dad say hi. We’ll be back to England by the time you can answer us probably, but I recommend letting the owl rest up a bit first._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_JAMES WARREN BHARGAVA POTTER_

 

Below it is Sirius’ letter. It’s shorter and significantly more legible.

 

_Moony,_

_Having a great time at the Cup. The whole world’s packed in here, and the best part is seeing all the mad stuff people from abroad do— we saw the Russian witch next to us at the campsite catch a grindylow in the lake with her bare hands, but Mr and Mrs Potter don’t believe us. There’s also loads of cool things to see in Geneva if you go on the wizarding tours. People used to try to do necromancy here a couple centuries ago, so you can go to the caves around the lake and see some really gross, messed up stuff. It’s the absolute best._

_Carlos sends her regards, and is pining for you terribly. Or I imagine she is, it’s hard to tell. She was on James’ shoulder when somebody lit a bottle rocket right next to us and nearly burst our eardrums, but she didn’t react at all. James reckons she’s fearless, the perfect icon of Gryffindor House, but I think she might just be deaf._

_Have you heard from Pete at all? We’re going to write to him too, obviously, but we won’t bother if he’s been murdered by his cousins. Always a possibility this far into the holidays. I only see mine once a year and I can’t stand them, I don’t know how he deals with his whole family living right next bloody door._

_Hope you’re doing alright, and that the full wasn’t too awful._

_Sirius_

 

He almost misses the postscript:

 

_I don’t know how much your decor will be improved by a photograph of a devilishly handsome young gentleman with a skinny speccy git, but Mrs P insisted we send you a copy._

 

Inside the envelope Remus finds one more piece of paper, a small square photograph that’d look like a Muggle Polaroid shot if its subjects weren’t moving. Sirius and James stand with their arms flung around each other’s shoulders, an enormous stadium far off behind them just visible through the crowd. They beam up at him, faces bright with excitement, and Remus finds himself smiling back. He tacks it up on the wall above his desk.  

He feels a bit guilty for the part of himself that wishes Sirius weren’t off having the time of his life with his honourary family, so he might instead be home in the city to come over and be bored with Remus. The holidays pass more quickly when there’s somebody else in town to waste time with. And Remus has noticed that there’s a quality to Sirius that makes him hard to capture in a letter. With James and Peter, writing back and forth is at least _some_ substitute for actually speaking to them. But Sirius, for whatever reason, only works in person to him. 

Maybe it’s all the very specifically Sirius-y things he does that seem so essential to his personality. Reading ‘Moony’ (he’s grown to accept that the nickname’s not going away) in Sirius’ handwriting and hearing him say it are two very different experiences. That posh accent of his— which Sirius himself hates and James finds hilarious, which has softened over the years but not by much— is part of it. The word becomes all prim, diphthongal drawl: vowels slid together from the bottom of his throat to the back of his teeth, like the glide up a piano keyboard. Mee-ooney. There’s also how he _knows_ that Remus hates the name and it colours the way he says it every time, almost imperceptibly, the tiniest trace of that familiar tilt to his lips. _What’re you going to do about it?_ it asks. _What indeed,_ Remus thinks. 

He shakes his head. Does it automatically, possessed by some desperate, stupid instinct like it’d achieve something, dislodge whatever’s been sticking to the walls in there lately. Rattle it free, like a dog shaking off an insect.

 

***

 

Whenever it’s been months since Sirius has seen Brianna, she always comments on how tall he’s gotten. Somehow it surprises her every time.

“A sweet little eleven-year-old fell into my shop!” she exclaims. “This big reedy thing— how’d that happen? Since when am I shorter than you, eh?”

“Since like a year ago.”

“Shut it.” She grabs one of his hands, studies his black nail varnish, scrunches her nose. “All them arty little mod fucks used to wear this in the sixties.”

He snatches his hand back. “I saw Freddie Mercury with it in _Melody Maker_ , sod off.”

They go about their usual business: Sirius digs through the crates of new releases while Brianna sits on the counter, smokes a cigarette, and asks after his friends.

“How’s James?”

“Asked me the other day if Iggy’s full name was ‘Ignatius Pop’, so, y’know, normal.”

“Peter?”

“Still into Pink-bloody-Floyd. I did end up giving him that one with the cow on for Christmas like you said and I’ve regretted it ever since, thanks a lot.”

“And the one with the funny name?”

“Remus has been weird. Isn’t answering my letters.”

She snorts, exhaling smoke. “Never heard nothing like it, you lot and your _letters_. Call him on the telephone, you numpty.”

“Er—”

“You’ve got a bleeding telephone, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah of _course_ I’ve got a _telephone_ ,” Sirius sputters. “It’s just that, er—” Wildly he casts around for an excuse. What goes wrong with telephones? “The cat ate it,” he blurts.

She blinks. “’Scuse me?”

“The cat ate it. Took a big bite out of the, er. The bit you talk into.”

“Your cat…ate the telephone receiver?”

“Er…”

Sirius gets frustrated with himself in moments like these. It was three years ago that Brianna took him under her wing; how is he still so bad at pretending to be ‘normal’ for her sake? He wonders how Malcolm got used to it.

 _He gave up the wizarding world,_ Sirius’ brain answers. _That’s how._

Oh. Right.

Sirius wonders about that sometimes, why Malcolm did what he did, but he’s never asked. He doesn’t think there’s any answer that would make sense to him. Sirius has never known anything but their world. He can’t picture himself without it.

What would that even look like, a Black without magic? Would his family exist, would he have been born at all? His parents are second cousins, he knows it wasn’t love that made them get married. And what about the family disease? Muggles get haemophilia too, but Sirius has never thought to wonder before what he’d do about it without magic: there’s an easy spell that stops the nosebleeds he gets. He still remembers being eight and suddenly not being able to see, how the Healers worked out that his brain had started bleeding. They gave him a potion and he was fine. He doesn’t know how Muggles would’ve fixed that.

It’s not worth imagining. Sirius is a product of his world, and he couldn’t exist without it. How weird it is to have a friend on the other side who’s got no idea of the gulf between them; how weird it is that secrets this huge can be kept casually, day-to-day.

“Yeah,” Sirius answers. “Bit it right in half.”

Brianna puts her cigarette out on the counter, rolling her eyes. “Whatever, lad.”

 

***

 

“I can’t believe you got them!”

Sirius brandishes the tiny drawstring pouch with pride. “Said I would, didn’t I?”

“But where did you find _Doxy eggs_?” James doesn’t bother to lower his voice. The greenhouse is full of noise while the fourth years fight with their Fanged Geraniums, a lazy October rainfall pattering against the glass roof.

“Told Kettleburn I had a keen interest and asked if he had any samples.” Sirius _tsks_ fondly, a sound sharply at odds with the snarling hiss his Fanged Geranium just produced. “Such an innocent soul, never suspects a thing. I feel bad taking advantage of him, I do.”

“Do you really?” Peter asks.

“Not at all.”

“Worked out well for us,” Peter says. The second ritual in the Animagus spell demands a second potion, as full of weird ingredients as the last one.

“Moony’ll be back later today, yeah?” James asks.

“No idea,” Peter says. “You been to see him?” he asks Sirius.

“Nah.” He recoils sharply as his geranium snaps at his hand. “He’s been funny with me lately. Dunno what I did.”

“Wish we could just get the stupid thing done,” James says. “Then he wouldn’t have to be in the bloody hospital all the time.”

“How d’you reckon that?”

“Because he wouldn’t hurt himself so bad in the first place, since that’s the whole _point_ , Pete.”

“I mean, I think he’d still be in—”

“It’s got to be on the new moon, right?” Sirius says. “I checked the calendar, the next one’s on the fifteenth, that’s two weeks from now. Think we’ll be ready by then?”

“Easy. We’ll brew the potion and after that it’ll be a piece of cake.”

Peter isn’t sure if he would describe attempting a major step in a complex and potentially lethal spell as a ‘piece of cake’, but he doesn’t argue. “I double-checked McGonagall’s book, but I still don’t understand the bit about—”

“ _Oy!_ ” James glares at something past Peter’s shoulder. “Get out of here!”

Of course when Peter turns around it’s Snape he sees, hovering nearby. He glowers at James as he picks up a watering can at random from a shelf. “Just getting this.”

“And you’ve got it,” Sirius says, drawing his wand. “Now split.”

With one more dirty look at the two of them, Snape slinks away.

James vents his feelings on a weed in his geranium’s pot, yanking it up with such force that soil sprays everyone in a metre radius. “Sneaking, creeping, slimy little—”

“Thinks we’re _up to something_ ,” Sirius growls. “Wouldn’t that just be the best day of his pathetic life, catching us in the act? Let’s hex him, it’s been ages.”

“You hexed him yesterday,” Peter points out, but no one seems to hear him.

“Got an even better idea,” James says. “We’ve still got those Dungbombs?”

 

***

 

Remus hurries out of the hospital wing to get to History of Magic. Anything’s better than sitting in bed letting Madam Pomfrey fuss over him, even Professor Binns soliloquizing in monotone about giant wars.

He takes his seat at the end of the row and gets his things out. Just past his right elbow Sirius watches him, stifling laughter into his sleeve. 

It’s suspicious. “What’s going on?”

Across the aisle on Sirius’ other side James and Peter burst into muffled giggles and wow, Remus needs new friends. 

“Would someone _please_ —” 

Sirius cuts him off, looking like the cat that got a whole bloody flock of canaries. “Got Snivellus _really_ good today.”

Remus turns around in his seat. A worried-looking Lily sits beside an empty chair. “What’d you do to him?” he asks.

“Oh, don’t you worry your little moony head about it,” Sirius says in the voice he uses when he’s trying to be annoying, the one that makes him sound like a particularly smug Oscar Wilde character. He reaches over to ruffle Remus’ hair and explains, “He’s perfectly unharmed. Just— ah— inconvenienced.”

James leans over the gap between his and Sirius’ desk. “Remember how we ordered a whole load of Dungbombs for the— for last year?”

It’s funny, this unspoken rule that they don’t refer to the Slytherin common room prank, that they don’t allude to it at all. “Yeah,” Remus says. 

Catching his bottom lip with his teeth even as it spreads into a grin, Sirius tilts his chair at a more precarious angle. “Made good use of them.”

“Oh?”

“Was bloody spying on us again,” Sirius says, drawing out the suspense. “Couldn’t just go with the usual jinxes, could we?”

“Stuffed him into the first floor lav with the whole lot of them,” James blurts.

Sighing, Remus drops his face to one hand. “Locked the door, I suppose?”

“Chill out, somebody will hear him sooner or later.”

The timing is remarkable. No sooner has Remus started to reply than the classroom door opens and in stalks Snape, with him the most overpoweringly sulphuric stench Remus has ever smelled. Everyone in the room covers their noses as he makes for his seat, a few people let out strangled groans, and Sirius, James, and Peter lose it completely, dissolving into fits of stifled laughter. Professor Binns takes no notice and keeps talking. 

Red-faced, Snape pauses at James’ desk. In a furious undertone he hisses, “You’re a dead man, Potter.” He turns to Sirius. “You too, Black. You’re _dead men_.”

Sirius barks a laugh and says, at full volume, “Well, fuck— at least we don’t smell like it, mate!”

Whether it’s the room positively exploding with laughter or the profanity that finally gets Professor Binns to turn around, they’ll never know. 

“Mr Brown, that’s quite enough!” he wheezes. 

“Yeah, Mr Brown,” James drawls, and Sirius about tips over his desk aiming a kick at him. 

Snape reaches his desk in the row behind theirs, and there’s a loud scraping of furniture as those nearest scoot their chairs away from the source of the smell. Collars pull up over mouths and noses, Marianne Summerby sprays the air with perfume from her bag, there’s a mad scramble to open the windows, and Snape’s face grows steadily redder. Lily’s the only one in the room who doesn’t react; she grabs him by the arm and says something quietly, takes out her wand. 

“Evans, hey Evans!” James is twisted round in his seat, hand in his hair. “How d’you like him now?”

But she doesn’t seem to be listening. Not acknowledging James’ existence at all, she waves her wand around Snape, muttering quietly, a hand left comfortingly on his forearm. 

“Evans! Hey, y—” When Peter nudges him with a shoulder, James’ mouth snaps shut. He drops to his desk on his elbows. “Whatever.” He settles into his arms to doze.

The ruckus dies away eventually, and the class falls back into its usual lethargic quiet, punctuated by the odd snore. Remus attempts to take notes (he’s the only one of the four who does; it’s down to him that they don’t all fail the class) but can’t wrestle any focus. Even with the combined force of Lily’s spellwork and the open windows, the smell is still pretty overpowering. 

Next to him Sirius has completely given up on paying attention, slumped flat onto his desk, cheek against the wood. The angle at which he landed has left a good deal of dark hair spilling over the right half of Remus’ notebook. Remus goes to brush it away, but stops himself. Instead, he pokes lightly at Sirius’ shoulder with the point of his quill. 

Sirius mumbles, “Ow,” and doesn’t move.

“You’ve gotten your hair all over my notebook.”

Muffled against the desk: “It’s for decoration.”

“Sirius.”

“Alright, alright.” Sirius raises his head and rearranges himself into a more controlled sprawl. This time he’s got his right arm stuck out over the desk, hand dangling, head rested against the inside of his elbow. He looks at Remus, petulant. “Don’t shout at me, I’m tired.” 

“You had the energy to haul someone bodily into a loo.”

“Yeah, and now I’m tired.”

Remus rolls his eyes. He forces himself to pay attention, but now Professor Binns is talking about some sort of banshee revolt and he’s got no idea what’s going on.

He gives up quickly. He pokes Sirius again.

“Ow.”

“As a matter of interest, what exactly was he spying on?”

“Just talking about the potion, mostly. We’ve been assembling ingredients.”

“And?”

“Doxy eggs were a breeze, and the other two did a really excellent job nicking knotgrass from Slughorn. Got detention just to help him ‘organise’ his stores.”

“You usually wait until I’m back for that sort of scheme.”

“Yeah, thought we’d spare you the especially stupid stuff.” Sirius shrugs the shoulder he isn’t lying against. “You’ve got enough on your plate catching up after you get back. No time for detention.”

That surprises Remus. “That was very considerate.”

“Pete’s idea. I reckon in addition to being The Oldest One he’s also The Considerate One.”

“To be fair, The Oldest One was always a bit of a cop-out. The Considerate One’s better.”

Sirius scoffs. “If you’re a little old lady.”

“Better than being Fit and Useless.”

Cheek against the desk, Sirius peers up at him from under dark eyelashes and says, “‘Fit’, am I?”

Immediately Remus feels his face get hot and his pulse pick up and _damn_ him, really. “That’s been your title forever, James said it.”

“I believe the word James used was ‘pretty’.”

Remus ducks his head, stabs his quill into its ink pot, and copies down the first words he hears Professor Binns say. “Either way, you’re useless.”

As he scribbles down something about cauldron embargoes he hears Sirius laugh quietly. His notes become spectacularly blotted. 

He shakes himself. _Get it together, man._

It’s become a pattern, this. 

Remus doesn’t think about it. People talk all the time about how you can’t take back words once you’ve said them but they don’t mention thoughts, how once you’ve allowed a thought to wriggle its way to the surface there’s no stamping it back down again into the static underneath, the un-worded sub-subconscious buzz where it can’t hurt you. Keep it out of the front of your mind because once you’ve had that thought you’re guilty of it forever, your brain will always be different for the phantom pathways those neurons burned. Remus knows it’s an awful way to see things, he’s knows that it’s unhealthy, but he’s never been able to shake it. For as long as he can remember his own mind has seemed to him like a poisonous, guilty thing that’ll never be as pure or as whole or as righteous as he wants it to be, and as such shouldn’t be dipped into more deeply than necessary.

He doesn’t break the surface. He doesn’t think about it.

His quill ran out of ink a sentence or two ago; he’s been scratching invisible words. He throws down his quill with a murmur of, “Oh, sod it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sirius says sleepily. His eyes are shut. Then a second later they snap open as he says, rather loudly, “Oh! I forgot to tell you—”

Remus shushes him and Sirius lowers his voice again. “We’re going to do the thing in two weeks, Tuesday the fifteenth. We’ll be good to go by then.”

“We— really?” Remus drops his voice into the quietest whisper he can manage; being overheard would be disastrous. “Where?”

“Where else? The Forbidden Forest, of course. I was thinking that nice big clearing, where Kettleburn takes us sometimes.” 

“That happened…fast. Wow.” 

Sirius smiles drowsily. “You’re welcome, Moony. Now that’s sorted…” 

He settles his face back into the crook of his elbow, and within minutes he’s sound asleep. 

Binns drones on; Remus stares into space. After a while of gazing listlessly at the back of Randy Parkinson’s head, he sees Sirius stir out of the corner of his eye. He’s tilted his head in his sleep, causing some hair to fall over his face. It moves a little every time he breathes, which is funny to watch. It’s probably not comfortable, hair hanging over your face like that. It’d get hot, wouldn’t it? Especially since Sirius has got such thick hair. Absently, Remus reaches over to move it out of the way. It’s very wavy. Would it be curly, if it were shorter? It’s brushed his shoulders for as long as Remus has known him. It's also quite soft.

It’s at this point that Remus realises he’s sitting in the middle of History of bloody Magic, combing his friend’s hair with his fingers. He recoils. He drops his head to his desk and buries it in his arms. 

Oh God. This is going to be a problem. 

 

***

 

“Careful,” James says, his wandlight bending eerily through the dark trees. “I hear there are _werewolves_ in this forest.”

Remus rams into him with his shoulder. James cackles.

The trees thin out into a grassy, classroom-sized clearing where they set up shop. Remus casts a look around. His eyes have only just adjusted to the moonless night, and even with the vivid spray of stars that arcs overhead— so unlike what he’s used to at home in London— the darkness seems unnaturally thick. It lies dense and black over the towering wall of trees.

“I’ve never liked new moons,” he says to no one in particular.

“Should think you’d like them a spot more than the full ones.”

He shrugs, eyes on the sky. “Devil I know.”

“Er, lads?” comes Peter’s voice, and Remus looks earthward again. Peter is crouched over the cauldron, set on a convenient stump. “How do we start a fire without burning the forest down?”

He and Remus look at each other for a second.

“Were you a Boy Scout?” Remus asks.

“Mum didn’t think I was suited for it.”

“Erm. Hang on, think I know something.” Remus points his wand into his cupped palm, muttering an incantation he only sort of remembers, and light blue flames flicker to life in his hand with the sensation of a soft breeze. He scoops his handful of flame into the rotted hollow in the center of the stump and sets the cauldron over it. The murky potion inside immediately starts to bubble.

“Wicked.”

“Thanks.”

“Alright lads,” says James in his distinct _Alright lads_ voice. “Shall we begin?”

When Remus was a child growing up in a Muggle suburb, with his only real knowledge of magic whatever spells Dad did around the house, he had a rather fantastical picture in his mind of what magic should look like. Part of that was Muggle films, but mostly it was his mother’s classics doctorate. Studying magic in school has made it significantly less romantic in his mind, as learning a lot about a subject often does, and he’s since let go of the mystical images in his head. 

But what beautiful, dangerous images they were. The magic of his childhood was the magic of alchemists in their secret workshops, plunging their hands into the guts of the universe; the magic that flowed through Circe when she turned men into pigs, through Cassandra when she prophesied on the burning plains of Troy; the magic that made worshippers of Dionysus go mad and rip people to shreds. He’s learned since then, of course, that magic is a lot more mundane than all that. Mostly it’s copying down notes on wand movements and trying to remember the dates of goblin wars and cutting up your valerian root wrong and your potion blowing up all over your shoes. To Remus, magic hasn’t been big and cosmic and frightening for a very long time.

But tonight…Tonight he catches himself thinking, _This is what magic should be_. 

An eerie purplish light coming off the potion as James adds the last ingredients. He pours in a final vial of powdered lionfish spines, and with a sizzling _whoosh_ the mixture exhales a column of steam that glistens like heat rising from pavement. The smell that fills the clearing is sweetly metallic, like spent gunpowder. Their three faces are ghoulish in the potion’s glow as they lean in over the cauldron, close their eyes, and on James’ nod begin to breathe in the steam. 

Remus isn’t sure how long the stillness lasts, only that his eyes burn in the acrid-smelling steam and that he wouldn’t shut them for a thousand Galleons. He sits fully enraptured of the glimmer in the air and the glow that gets steadily brighter and brighter, and of the smell that fills him up and makes him feel queasy but also stronger than he ever has before, like he could do anything, anything at all— he wonders if this is what the maenads had, he doesn’t feel especially _inclined_ to dismember a king with his hands but he probably could if he wanted to--

Suddenly Sirius’ eyes fly open, and he heaves a deep, rattling gasp. The others take no notice. Remus crawls forward with his heart in his throat: “Sirius! What’s—”

Sirius staggers upright, sheet of parchment in his left hand, and in the shimmering light Remus sees him raise his wand. The hissing and crackling of the potion gets louder but Remus can still hear Sirius’ voice as he reads out the long incantation he perfected for months, syllables spilling from him as if he’s lost the need for oxygen, like he’s beyond it, and there’s another gasp and a choking sound: Remus sees James lurch to standing.

Their voices run together for minutes, probably, and then Peter joins them and the potion is growing brighter and sizzling louder until Remus is sure it’s going to explode but that doesn’t bother him because nothing can hurt any of them right now, nothing, they’re more than teenage boys, they’re more than _mortal_ —

And then darkness. The dense cloud of glistening steam pulls away, sucked back into the potion; the mad crescendo of light and noise cuts off and Sirius, James, and Peter crumple to the ground, unconscious. 

The moonless night slams down over Remus’ eyes. He feels the cold night air again, and hears the rustling of the forest around him. He doesn’t feel strong anymore. On the contrary, he’s filled with blind panic. 

“Oh shit,” he says, swaying to his feet. “Oh God, no, oh shit.” His knees feel like rubber; his heart hammers so hard he can hear it. “Oh shit, oh Jesus Christ— _hey!_ ” 

He sprints to where James is collapsed some metres in front of him, nearly kicking over the cauldron in the process. He falls to his knees to shake him by the shoulders, but James’ eyes stay closed. “Hey! Hey, wake up!” He shakes him again. Nothing. “No, no no, this wasn’t supposed to happen, I told you it could but it wasn’t supposed to _happen_ —”

Behind him, a drowsy voice says, “Remus?” He spins around. Peter is lying on the ground a ways away, disoriented but definitely not dead. 

A strangled shout falls out of Remus’ mouth. He staggers over, hearing his own voice crack upward an octave when he yelps, “PETE!”

Peter only looks more confused when Remus pretty much falls on top of him. “Yeah, I…what’s wrong with you?”

Remus gulps in deep breaths. “Thought I killed you lot for a second.”

“Nah, they’ll come round in a sec,” Peter says hoarsely. He frowns at Remus. “Were you crying?”

He reaches up to swipe a hand under his eyes. Huh. “I dunno.”

“That’s fair, considering. Thought we were dead, and all.” 

There’s a retching sound from the other side of the clearing. Sirius is propped on one elbow with his face turned over his shoulder, vomiting into the grass. 

“Ah,” says Peter. “So, just the one more, then.”

“Merlin’s _balls_!”

“Oh, there he is,” says Peter.

James rights himself onto shaking elbows. “Lads! Lads, I’m a, I just saw…oh, bugger.” He flips over onto his hands and retches.

“At least I didn’t get sick,” Peter says brightly.

Sirius resurfaces, gasping for breath. “Find some wood and knock on it, mate.”

“Alright, wait, so…what happened?”

“I got hit by a bloody truck is what happened,” Sirius pants, then turns over and is sick some more.

James comes up for air just long enough to contribute, “Yeah, same,” and then is back at it.

“I feel…odd,” says Peter as he climbs unsteadily to his feet. His face is pale and sweaty. “That was odd. I…oh.” He sways and Remus stands up to catch him.

Later, when everyone looks more normal and stops being sick, they sit in a circle around the little blue fire in the stump, the cauldron set aside. Remus doesn’t know what to say after the enormity of what they’ve just done. What comes out of his mouth is, “So?”

Behind his glasses, flashing in the flickering blue light, James’ eyes widen. “That. That is a _bitch_ of a spell.”

“ _I warned you, didn’t I?_ Since the beginning I’ve been saying—!”

“Oh shut up, would you?” James groans. “I haven’t got the energy. Anyway, I definitely saw something, did either of you?”

“What do you mean, saw something?” asks Remus, but nobody answers.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t tell what,” Sirius says “It was big, though, with four legs.”

“So was mine! But mine had the, eh, what d’you call ’ems.” James holds up his hands on top of his head and sticks out his fingers, giving him the impression of a black-haired television arial. “The things.”

“The what?”

“The, ah.” He wiggles his fingers. “I forget the word. The prong-y things.”

“Antlers?” Peter suggests.

“Yeah, them.”

“‘ _Prong-y things_ ’.” Sirius snorts. “Wow.”

“I forgot the word!”

“Yeah, but ‘prong-y things’?”

“How else would you call ’em if you forgot the word?”

“I don’t know, but I’d—”

“You saw your animal forms?” Remus says. “Already? I thought that didn’t happen for weeks after.”

“I think it’s sort of a cumulative thing,” James replies. “I didn’t see all of mine, just—”

“Just the prong-y things,” says Sirius.

“Shut up!”

“Think you’re a moose, mate.”

“Shut _up!_ ”

“What about you?” Remus asks Peter. “See anything?”

In a small voice he says, “Not a thing.”

“That’s no trouble,” James says. “It’ll come later in the dreams and things, that’s what all the books said.”

“Yeah.”

“At least you kept your dinner,” Sirius says. “That was absolutely mad, I thought my insides were melting. This spell is…”

“A bitch?” Remus volunteers.

“Yeah, about sums it up.”

“But man, for a second there…” James trails off, eyes unfocused. “For a bit, I felt like…I dunno.”

“Powerful?” says Remus. When all three of them nod, he continues. “I got that too and it was only secondhand.”

Peter smiles, small and to himself. “I felt like Superman.”

Remus nudges him with his elbow. “Even Superman couldn’t do this.”

“Well, we done here, then?” says James and he gets to his feet. “Wouldn’t mind a nice lie-down after that, I’ll admit…”

The other two stand as well. Remus blurts out, “Hang on, I. Ah.”

“What?”

“I just. Er.” It’d seemed like a good idea before, but now Remus feels embarrassed. “Nothing, just a stupid idea I had, you lot should sleep—”

“Oy, none of that. We love stupid ideas. What is it?”

His face is heating up, and he thanks the new moon for the darkness. “Well, it’s just that you three are doing all of this stuff for me and we knew that this particular ritual would be really unpleasant, and I thought— well, I figured that I ought to do something nice for you all, a gift or something, but I didn’t know what that’d be and besides it’s not like I have money or anything—”

“Spit it out, Moony.”

“I…oh Christ, it’s stupid. But it’s all I could think of,” he says desperately. “You see, my mum’s started to feel bad that while I’m at school I get used to Madam Pomfrey’s potions for the pain after fulls and then when I come home I haven’t got them and pretty much have to wait it out, because you can’t get Muggle painkillers without being given them by a doctor. So she got me other stuff, and she cooks it into things for me but…” He reaches over for his bag, digs through it, and pulls out a folded up envelope. He hands it to Peter who, it occurs to him, will be most likely to understand what it is.

Peter doesn’t disappoint. He tears open the envelope and looks inside, and his eyes widen. “Holy hell.”

“What?” say Sirius and James in unison. 

Looking back up at Remus, Peter’s expression is one of complete shock. “Your _mum_ got you pot?”

“She’s a weird mum, alright?”

“My aunt caught my cousin with some a couple years ago. She went totally mental, barely let him outside the whole summer.”

“Well, it’s a bit different!” Remus protests. “The pain’s really awful without the potions and she knew this would help, which it does, but I thought—”

“Wait,” says James. “Are you saying that you, Remus Sensible Lupin—”

“John,” he mumbles.

“—got us drugs? By stealing from your mother?”

Remus flings his hands out to his sides. “Yes! Alright? That is exactly what I did! Do you want the pot or not?”

“Well of _course_ we do, you magnificent bastard!” James crows. He throws himself to the ground next to Remus, grabbing the envelope from Peter as he goes. “Come on, let’s get this show on the road.”

“I don’t get it,” Sirius says.

“In time, Black,” James says soothingly as he goes for his bag. “Now get down here.”

“How do you even know what marijuana is?” asks Peter. “You’re a pure-blood.”

“I,” says James, ripping a piece of parchment into careful pieces, “am a very particular sort of pure-blood.”

“What sort’s that?”

He takes out another sheet and empties the contents of the envelope onto it, says, “New money,” and leaves it at that. 

With their four combined brain powers, three tries, and one Sticking Charm, they eventually manage to create a successful joint. After Remus gestures for James to do the honours, he leans over the stump and lights it on the blue fire. The end ignites, sending the spicy smell of it curling up through the air.

“Hey, it smells like Brianna’s shop,” Sirius says. He thinks for a moment. “Oh, that explains some things.”

“Cheers,” says James. He takes a pull on the joint, then immediately begins coughing so hard that it drops from his hand, lands in the grass, and starts a small fire. Sirius puts it out with a jet of water from his wand. 

“Oh dear,” Remus says.

 

***

 

“You know what’s really far out?” says James as he lies on his back in the grass. “Air conditioning.”

“What?” Sirius says.

“Air conditioning. It’s a thing Muggles have got in their houses to keep it from getting too hot or cold.”

“What is it, though?”

“Are you lot really talking about air conditioning?” Remus asks, but everyone ignores him. The grass is very cold but nice and soft. 

“I dunno. Sciencey thing.” James lifts one arm up from the ground and arcs it over his body toward Peter. “Peeeeeettigrew,” he sing-songs. “Explain.”

Peter, who’s sat up against the stump and lit from behind in shuddering blue, makes a face. “How should I know?”

“You’re sciencey and you live around Muggles.”

“But I dunno how air conditioning works,” Peter says. Remus had forgotten how much Peter changes his accent around them, how they haven’t heard his natural voice since the early weeks of first year, but it turns out that a stoned Peter is pure Lancashire. “You just put it in your house and it goes.”

“Without magic?” says Sirius. “Woah. Wicked.”

“Think that’s wicked, you’d go spare over quantum mechanics.”

“What’re those?”

“Science of small stuff. So small you can’t see it.”

“The science of James Potter’s brain,” says Sirius, then laughs for a really long time while James turns over and flails his limbs at him. Then Sirius continues. “Small stuff? What’s so special?”

“Like…” Peter stares into space for a good ten or fifteen seconds. Finally, he shakes his head. “Nah. I’m not smart enough.”

“Come ooooooon,” James calls from the ground. Sirius joins in. 

“Fine fine _fine_ ….it’s. Er. Atoms and stuff. But it means more stuff than that. Like…” Peter screws up his face, apparently trying to convince his drugged brain to work faster. “Like, light’s particles and waves at once and it’s really fast, faster than anything, and there’s this stuff called space-time that we’re all in all the time and it’s space but also time at the _same time_ because time’s a _dimension_ , see? And then because light’s so fast and because of space-time…things, it’s. Er.” He flaps his hands. “It’s why you can’t go back in time, see, like they do in the films and I always wanted to like in the films so when I was in primary school I asked me teacher how, but he told me how you can’t because you’d have to go at, at the speed of light, see, but energy is mass times the speed of light squared and all that so you can’t do it, go at the speed of light, because then your mass would have to be so big it’s _infinite_ , which is against—”

“Hang on,” says James. “You can go back in time, though. People do it with Time-Turners.”

To Remus’ surprise, Peter starts laughing. It’s different than the perpetual giggles he’s had since they passed around the joint, though. From anyone else Remus would call it ‘sardonic’. 

“Magic, though. Magic doesn’t count.” Peter sinks further back against the stump. “Magic…..you know? Magic’s the worst.” 

“What’re you on about?” Sirius says.

“I said that magic’s the _worst_. It hasn’t got any rules at all. It just…it just _goes_ , doesn’t care about anything else at all.”

“It’s got some rules,” James says. “You’ve got G—”

“Bloody Gamp and his bloody Laws of bloody Transfiguration,” Peter says, and Remus is shocked. He’s never heard Peter interrupt James like that or, for that matter, talk this long without stammering. He doesn’t know if it’s the pot or the subject matter that’s got Peter so at ease. “But they don’t come down to anything. In science there’s always a reason for something, you’ve got something then there’s a _reason_ , not in a ‘theory of everything’ kinda way because you haven’t really got those, well I mean there’s like general relativity and the, and the things, what’s the other thing— I…” Peter blinks. “I’ve forgotten what I was saying.” He looks down at Remus, lying close to his shoe. “What was I saying?”

Remus regrets his decision to take this moment to sit up. The world spins dizzyingly; the huge black sky stirs its cauldron of stars. Also, he’s having trouble remembering what order the last thirty seconds happened in. “General relativity?”

“Oh…” Peter trails off again. “I’m just, y’know, I’m saying that physics is beautiful because it’s got _rules_ so that way it’s got, it’s got, it’s got _harmony_ , d’you see?”

James snorts his way into a fit of giggles. “‘Physics is beautiful’? You’re stoned, mate, you’re. You’re talking nonsense.”

“Aaaaaaaaaggghaaaggghhh,” Peter says eloquently. “That’s the thing with wizards. Think they know everything. The universe has got rules. Think they know everything cause they can sidestep all the rules. There’s got to be _rules_.”

“You can’t say ‘that’s the problem with wizards’ when you _are_ a wizard, you git,” Sirius says, and Remus thinks he’s got a point.

“But I’m an awful one so I don’t matter, see?”

“You shut your mouth!” James says. “That’s…that’s rubbish! I’ll hex you if you say that again!”

Sirius makes a growling sort of noise. “I’ll help.”

“Oh shut up, all of you,” Peter says, and without further ado he rolls over against the stump and into the grass. 

But Remus is curious. “How d’you know all this stuff?”

“Me teacher took a special interest,” he answers, thick with Northern lilt. “Gave me books and things. Told Mum I could be a, an engineer or— or an astrophysicist even, anything I wanted if I had the right teaching, said I could go to university.” He snorts. “Thought that was right hilarious, she did. Couldn’t get a decent mark for the life of me, could I? Didn’t pan out into nothing, much.” Shrugging, he tips his face up toward the night sky. “We knew I was gonna get the letter anyway, both me parents are magic so that right well sealed the deal. No point fussing about with maths when your name’s down for Hogwarts.”

Remus can’t stop staring at Peter. He has the impression— one his murky brain just presented to him, sans explanation, as fact— that he’s seeing him clearly for the first time. He wants to know more, ask a million questions of this person who’s like the Peter he’s known all this time but so unabashed and confident. There really are some nice things about drugs, he thinks distantly. 

“Is that what you would’ve done, if you hadn’t gotten the letter? Gone to university?”

That elicits another watery giggle. “Nah. We don’t do that where I’m from.”

“What’s university?” asks James.

“A place Muggles go to learn more after they’re done with school,” Remus answers. 

“Did your mum go there, then?” says Sirius. “Being a teacher, and all.”

“Yeah, she did about as much school as you can do. She was Dr Jenning for a while back when she was publishing, before I was born, but—”

Peter chokes on air. “Jesus Christ, she’s got a PhD? My mum didn’t finish secondary school, good Lord.”

“What’s that?” James asks.

“A PhD’s a title they give to Muggles who are really smart in a particular subject.”

“Well, shit, mate,” Sirius says as he waves a languid hand at Peter, “you could get one of them.” Even in the dark Remus sees Peter redden. 

“She’s got one in classics,” Remus says. He doesn’t get a lot of opportunities to brag about his mum and he takes all of them that he can. “For generations the men in her family had been getting them, studying ancient Greek and such, but hardly any women went to university back then and especially not at that level. But she got one anyway. It was a big deal for the fifties.”

Sirius nods. “Right on.”

“She was getting her doctorate when she and Dad met, actually, that’s sort of how—”

“Wait.” James rolls over onto his stomach toward him. “Wait wait wait wait. There’s something.”

“Huh?”

“There’s…” He wriggles around on his stomach like an intoxicated snake, trying to look at him directly. “…something.” He points a finger at Remus’ face and says, matter-of-fact, “You never talk about your dad. Not once, you never have.”

Remus uncrosses his legs and tucks them up in front of himself. The October chill isn’t so bad, but he feels a great urge to curl up. “Haven’t I?”

“Nah, you haven’t,” Sirius chimes in. “Never. Well…once, you did once.” 

“There’s hardly anything to say. How often do you lot chat about your fathers?”

“Cause Mister Prong-y Things here is the only one’s got a good one, we all know that,” Sirius says. “Pete doesn’t know where his’s got to and mine’s a right scary bastard who never talks but every couple of years chucks the sugar bowl at my head. Not much to say there.”

“It’s just that we don’t know _anything_ about yours,” James says, “except that he doesn’t live with you.”

“They’re divorced, right? Or did he, er, pass?” Peter asks, with an awkward sensitivity that’s more than James or Sirius have ever tried for. 

“No, he’s not dead. And they’re not divorced either, legally— she still uses the name, at school and things— but for intents and purposes, yes. We haven’t heard from him since I was seven, or I haven’t, anyway.”

Ever steadfast in his character, James is the one who finally says, “Why?”

“You know, I too find air conditioning incredibly fascinating,” Remus says. “And central heating, that’s—”

“Why?” James says. But from the look dawning on his face, Remus suspects he already knows.

Directly across the circle from Remus, Sirius sits perfectly still. The blue firelight throws his thunderous expression into high relief, sharpening the tightness in his jaw, the twitch of his upper lip. “Think I’ll guess.”

James shoves himself upright and stares at Remus, waiting for a refutation. When he says nothing, James’ face twists in disbelief. With a vitriol Remus has never heard from him, he spits, “ _Bastard_.” 

“It’s more complicated than that, alright? Dad’s a pureblood, he grew up with, with certain influences that—”

“Still a bastard.”

“You’re making it too simple, it wasn’t so black and white as that.” Remus’ mind feels less pleasantly soft now, and his thoughts come out of his mouth much sharper than he expects them to when he says, “I know you find it gratifying being angry on my behalf, James, but what you fail to understand is that writing my father off as a bastard doing what bastards do won’t help me at all, it never has.”

The moment hangs heavily. The fire crackles, leaves rustle, and somewhere an owl hoots. 

“You’re right,” James says, quiet. “It won’t help.”

They fall into silence again. A chilly breeze brushes the Forbidden Forest, stirring the treetops and the ends of their hair, and without really meaning to, without the clear thought of it forming in his mind, Remus talks. He speaks softly and to no one in particular, but he can feel the others listening, feel their breathing fall into pattern with his. He lets the words come.

“I was five when I was bitten. It was a fluke thing. I went outside later than I was supposed to. We don’t know who it was or why they were there, the one house on a Muggle street where wizards lived, but it doesn’t matter. It happened, and whoever it was I don’t blame them.

“I didn’t fully understand it at the time, the implications of it, and I don’t think Mum did either. She’s a Muggle, so…I mean, she couldn’t fully appreciate what werewolves were to the world her son was born into. Dad knew, though. His family isn’t, you know, isn’t the _Blacks_ or whoever, but he grew up hearing awful things, and then he went and got the job at the Ministry. He worked in the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Isn’t that funny? The irony of that?

“They tried everything. They’ve got all sorts of mad ‘cures’ out there, but after a few years…well. It was hard for him, I could tell. He never treated my scars and things, that was always Mum, and I didn’t realise it at the time but it was because he didn’t like touching me. When I came into rooms he would look the other way, like I wasn’t there, like I was a figment of his imagination. I don’t remember much because when you’re that young you don’t remember specific things, just feelings, and I remember the feeling the house had in those days. As though it were always dark at the end of the hallway, and you always had a stomach ache, and nobody spoke above a whisper. Not literally, y’know, but that’s how it felt, that sort of tense. As if we lived in a haunted house. 

“Because everything went to rot after I was bitten. Everything went wrong. The house we were living in burned down just that next week, which is the most extraordinary coincidence, and then Dad got fired. I never knew why. There was something about…all of that stuff, that even now makes me feel as though I don’t know the whole story. Sometimes I think there are parts of it that Mum still keeps from me. I don’t ask her because I don’t want to know. I’m quite cowardly, you see. 

“Bad things kept happening. A year or two after I was bitten my parents told me I was going to have a little brother or sister, and I understand that now— I suppose they wanted some good news, something to bring light into things again. And it worked, for a while. I remember Mum being pregnant really well, actually, because the house felt so much better; they were hopeful again and as a kid I could sense that. They found out it was a girl and they let me help pick her name and everything, but when she was born she was dead. There was a funeral.

“He moved out a little while after that. Mum still doesn’t know this, but I heard their conversation that night. She thinks I was asleep but I wasn’t. Dad said he and Mum were cursed. He used that word, I’ll never forget it: ‘cursed’. How could they not be? One of their kids was dead and the other ought to be, he said. Precisely those words. 

“And I can’t blame him for thinking that way, I really can’t. I’d had the same thoughts myself. Not _thoughts_ so much, but the way stuff comes to you when you’re seven, like instinct. I had an instinct for guilt. I remember when they explained to me what happened with my sister, I remember being sure— not coming to the conclusion deliberately or anything, but just _assuming_ — that it was my fault. I was convinced that because of what I was my sister was not allowed to live and my parents were not allowed any happiness. Dad didn’t say anything to make me feel that way. I just did. 

“I’ve felt guilty since I was five years old and that’s not his fault, he had nothing to do with it, that was all me. So I can’t blame him for it. I try not to blame him for much, because I don’t know if I would’ve done any differently. Would I have stayed? Maybe not. All the cowardice I have, all the guilt, all the fear…I can’t blame anybody.”

The words run dry and the blue fire crackles softly in the silence. Remus has stared vacantly at the stump this whole time and he’s afraid to look up at his friends. _Cowardice_ , says a voice in his head. 

He looks up. They’re all staring at him. Sirius’ gaze is fixed, his face stony but his eyes burning, and Peter has his arms wrapped tightly around himself. James’ mouth hangs slightly open and (Remus could be wrong, it’s dark) there’s a slight watery brightness to his eyes. As they all sit there around the flickering fire, James nods to himself. He inhales to speak and, in the silence, a twig breaks. 

It happens fast. James’ eyes fix on something past Remus’ shoulder and he leaps to his feet and vaults over the stump, blocking out the blue fire when his robes whip past and for a split second it’s pitch black, and his roar of “HEY!” splits the moonless night. 

Remus is on his feet, wand drawn and heartbeat in his ears and what the hell is going on? He spins and sees James’ back vanish into the thick screen of black trees. Peter and Sirius fly past into the forest and he sprints after them. 

His legs pump hard beneath him and his lungs go into overtime to compensate for his racing heart but he doesn’t feel either of them, just sees the blackness close over him as he outstrips the weak firelight. He charges blindly after the sound of bodies crashing through the brush and James’ inarticulate cries of rage, echoing— James, where did James go? Remus whirls around, terror twisting in his throat, trying to find his friends, any of them, and through a cluster of ancient trees he spots a figure on profile, obscured by darkness but unmistakably James as he throws his wand arm out in front of him like a sword and cries, “ _Accio!_ ”

There’s a crash and a rush and a shout, and Remus watches another figure fly through the air as though yanked roughly backwards by an invisible tether and wham back-to-chest into James, sending them both careening into a tangled pile on the ground. They wrestle, yelling and punching and kicking, until there’s a flash of light from somebody’s wand and they’re on their feet again and Remus is about eighty percent sure that’s James holding the other person by the throat and not the other way around, oh God, and he pants, “Lumos,” as he runs.

The wildly bouncing pool of light spills into focus over an alarming tableau: James grips Snape by the collar and he thrashes in his hold, his sallow face full of fury. Sirius stands behind, seething with silent rage, while Peter hovers in his shadow.

“ _What did you hear?_ ” James roars, gives him a sharp shake by the neck. “WHAT?”

“I didn’t hear anything, I didn’t have to!” Snape says. “I smelled it just fine. Wait till McGonagall hears about this: the big Quidditch hero and his cronies sneaking off into the _Forbidden Forest_ to get high!”

But James just shakes him again. “You didn’t hear anything? Nothing, you heard nothing?”

“I didn’t _need_ to hear anything, you stupid pillock, I smelled all the evidence I need to get all four of you on the train home tomorrow!”

“Is that right?” James shoots back, but Remus catches the way his face falls in relief, how his shoulders relax. 

Snape didn’t hear Remus talking about his bite. That secret, at least, is safe. 

“I heard your plans to come out here tonight. You’ll want to be quieter in History of Magic,” he sneers at Sirius, whose lip curls threateningly. “I don’t know what you’re all playing at, arranging weeks in advance to go light up in a forest full of stuff that’ll kill you, but then none of you have ever been especially bright.” Now he turns to Peter. “I see why you hang round them, Pettigrew. You don’t look quite so stupid in comparison, do you?”

Sirius lunges forward but James pushes him away. “What’re you gonna do, tell on us? You’re out after hours in the Forest just the same as we are.”

“I’ll get a detention, fine, and Potter, Black, and sidekicks Loopy and Piggy will be out of here for good. Fair trade, I think.”

“Or maybe you’ll be going along with us when we tell them what you and your mates are up to.” Sirius stalks forward to crowd Snape. “I’d bet anything you’re one of them— the lot in the newspapers. You are, aren’t you? We know about all of it, we saw what you lot wrote on the walls.”

His face goes slack with shock for just a moment, then he’s glaring. “I had nothing to do with that stupid stunt!” he spits. “Messing around and running their mouths, writing on the bloody walls! They had hell to pay after that, would’ve been thrown out of the group if they didn’t already know too much. I know better than that.” He smiles, and it’s a slimy, sneering thing. “I’ll tell you this, Black: idiots who can’t help showing off won’t survive what’s coming. You’d do well to remember that.”

Sirius jabs his wand right between Snape’s eyes. “Is that a threat?”

“Not exactly. Not to you, anyway.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means,” Snape says in a voice so smug it’s syrupy, “that I wasn’t there that night, but your dear baby brother was.”

Remus can only see half of Sirius’ face, but he watches it twist. “Shut up.”

It’s just the reaction Snape’s looking for, apparently, because he grins. “Sweet little Reggie, their cuddly pet. Terribly spineless, that one, does whatever they tell him to do. Won’t last long. How old’s he now, twelve?” Snape _tsk_ s. “Such a sweet age. Shame he won’t see thirteen.”

Remus sees Sirius lurch forward but can do nothing to stop him; he watches him seize a white-knuckled fistful of Snape’s stringy hair and pull, all his weight behind him. Snape gives a short scream as Sirius heaves him out of James’ grip by the hair, hauls him around kicking and yelping, and hurls him to the dirt. Peter gasps, James shouts a laugh, and Sirius kicks out one foot to hold him down by the throat.

James is clutching his sides in laughter but Sirius’ face is icy with rage. “Talk about him again,” he growls down at Snape, who’s gasping and clutching uselessly at Sirius’ ankle. “I _dare_ you, you oily waste of oxygen.”

He manages a few strangled words: “Struck a nerve, have I?”

Teeth gritted like a wild animal, he throws his weight onto the foot on Snape’s throat, digging his heel in. Snape chokes and sputters and claws desperately at his leg but James keeps laughing and Remus can’t do this, the guilt is like an angry shoe crushing his windpipe, and he rushes forward.

“Sirius, stop!” he cries, grabs him by the arms and pulls. “He’ll suffocate, _stop!_ ” 

Something snaps on Sirius’ face and the animal look disappears. He lifts his foot, allows himself to be pulled backward into Remus’ grip. Snape scrambles to his feet, hand to his throat, eyes wide and manic.

“They’re gonna expel you,” Snape says hoarsely, eyes darting. “The four of you are up to something and I’m going to find out what, and they’ll finally expel all of you. You can’t threaten me! Even if I’d anything to do with that night, you couldn’t shock any of them.” He gives a short, humourless laugh. “They all know, Dumbledore and the others! They know the Dark Lord’s got supporters at Hogwarts but they can’t just give us detentions, can they? That’d be _admitting_ that they knew! They’re going to keep their heads in the sand, so there’s nothing any of you can say to anybody that would have the slightest—”

“We’ll tell Lily.”

Remus isn’t the only one who turns to Peter in shock: Snape, Sirius, and James also seem to have forgotten that he existed. But there he is, standing off to the side, wringing his hands. 

“Or I would, anyway,” he says. “She wouldn’t believe it from Sirius or James, but she’d believe it from me.” An odd look passes over Peter’s face. “Everybody knows I can’t lie.”

For the first time that night Snape looks thrown off. In fact, he looks properly scared. “What’s she got to do with anything?”

“She’s Muggle-born,” Peter explains. “So— s-so if she found out you were involved with— with the stuff happening in the papers, she….well, she, she wouldn’t be at all pleased about that.” He slips into the stammer, still clutching nervously at his hands, but his eyes stay steady on Snape’s. 

None of them move. The five boys stand locked in place by the circle of wandlight, and the deep blackness of the forest shudders around them. 

James’ voice is abrupt in the stillness: “Snivellus, we seem to have reached an impasse. How about we make a deal: you scurry off and forget this ever happened, and we’ll forget to tell Evans what we know. What d’you say?”

Remus doesn’t think it’s possible to kill someone with your mind, but Snape appears to be trying as he glares at James. 

“This isn’t over, Potter. You’ll get what you deserve,” Snape says. He drops his voice. “Even if it isn’t from me.”

Remus feels him knock hard into his shoulder as he passes. The dull crunch of his footsteps fades further and further away into the forest, and he’s gone.

The bravado James had displayed a moment ago drops off him like a heavy coat, and he collapses to the ground. “Fuck me sideways and call me a bowtruckle,” he groans into his hands, muffled. “That was close. Too close, oh _Merlin_.”

Heart still beating in his ears, Remus nods. “McGonagall wouldn’t have been well pleased to find us with drugs, would she?”

“I thought he’d heard you talking about your bite, stupid!” James cries, voice high with disbelief. “He was this close to telling the whole bloody school you’re a werewolf!”

“Ah. Right.”

James gets to his feet and goes to Peter. “Pettigrew,” he says solemnly, “that was excellent work.”

He shrugs. “Was nothing.”

Sirius stops pacing like an angry tiger to turn his awe on Peter. “Was _genius_ , is what it was! I thought I was going to have to actually kill him this time, but—”

“Who’d’ve thought Evans would ever turn out to be useful for anything, eh?” James says. “I forgot she still hangs round him. Probably the only friend he’s got. Amazing she puts up with him.”

“One of life’s great mysteries.”

“He’s an ugly git but, then, she’s a complete nightmare, so I imagine they’re perfectly matched.” 

“Can say that again.”

“I want to get him,” James announces. “Been a dirty great sneak for ages, and I’ve held back—”

“You have?” Remus says.

“But this is the final straw, you hear me?”

Sirius nods. “This means war.”

Remus’ stomach drops. “Again? Didn’t we just get an armistice?”

“He’s been trying to get us _expelled!_ ” James cries. “This isn’t just a laugh anymore, this isn’t pranking the Slytherin common room—”

“Yes, and you’ll recall how much of a laugh that was,” Remus says, short.

That shuts him up. For a second, unflappable James Potter looks uncomfortable.

But then Sirius speaks. “We’ve got to think of something good. _Really_ good, not the same old. Something to teach him a lesson, take him down a few pegs.” He growls, low in his throat. “Thinks he’s so clever…Yeah, it’s gotta be good. It isn’t over, this.”

“No,” James says. “Not even close.”

 

***

 

Exactly thirty days after they perform the spell in the forest, Remus is woken up at God-knows-what in the morning by a screaming James Potter leaping on top of him. 

“MOONY! I’M A DEER!”

He shoves James away and rolls back over into his pillow. “Good for you, mate,” he mumbles.

“ _Moony!_ ” There’s a click and a bright, painful light. “The dreams, the animal ones! We’ve all had them!”

Remus jolts upright. His head spins as his eyes adjust to the glaring lamplight. “You— what?”

“All three of us!” James shouts. “We all woke up about thirty seconds apart, it was mental! Pete nearly lost his dinner.” 

“Still not sure I won’t,” says a faint voice past the bed hangings. Remus yanks the curtains apart. Peter sits on the floor in front of him, pale and shaken, while Sirius leans against the bedpost.

Remus’ voice sounds shockingly calm to his own ears: “So? What’re you two, then?”

“I’m the universe’s sense of humour, is what I am,” Sirius says.

James frowns. “Huh?”

“Well, my name’s _Sirius_.”

Remus can’t believe it. “You’re a dog, aren’t you?”

“A _black_ one, too.” He gives a pensive toss of his hair from his eyes. “I dig it, though. Really enormous— could scare the shit out of anybody, I reckon.”

“Mine was wicked,” James declares. “One of those big, strong-looking ones people have on their coats of arms and things, with the big antlers you could kill somebody with!” He bounds off of Remus’ bed, alight with excitement. “Pettigrew! Don’t keep us in suspense!”

“Er.” Peter, on the other hand, looks distinctly unenthused. “I don’t wanna say.”

“Come off it! It can’t be that bad!”

“You aren’t a kitten, are you?” teases Sirius.

“A poodle?”

“A jellyfish?”

“A caterpillar?”

“Remus’ evil bunny rabbit?”

Peter blurts, “I’m a _mouse_ , okay?”

“Oh,” says James.

“A big one,” Peter continues, morose. “Like…” He holds his hands a ways apart. “Like that. And grey.”

“Er,” says Sirius.

“Er,” says James.

Remus sighs. He really doesn’t want to be the one to say this, but Sirius and James are staring at each other, lost for words.

“Peter,” Remus says gently, “that’s a rat.”

“I’m…” Peter says in a small, weak voice, “…I’m a _rat_?”

“Hey, none of that!” James drops down onto the floor next to Peter, swinging an arm around him. “We’re damn lucky you’re a rat, this is just what we need, see? We need somebody small enough to sneak around, who can get to the knot on the Willow. How else would we get through, eh? It’s not just useful that you’re so small, it’s _essential to the operation_.”

Remus knows that James is aware of how Madam Pomfrey simply levitates a long stick to prod the knot on the trunk every month. But Remus also knows when to shut up, so he nods eagerly.

“Yeah!” says Sirius. “Besides, rats are cool. They’re really smart, aren’t they?”

“ _Really_ smart,” Remus agrees. “Smarter than dogs.”

“Oh, thank Merlin. If Black was the smartest animal of the lot we’d really be up shit creek, wouldn’t we?” 

James dodges a kick from Sirius, rolls Carlos the puffskein off the lid of his trunk, and retrieves his Animagus notes.  He takes the topmost sheet of parchment and consults it. “Now that we know our forms, we’ve one more long-form incantation each to come up with and then one more potion ritual— we drink this one eventually, so it’s got to mean business. It’ll take a while,” he explains, scanning the notes, “because the incantation’s got to be repeated on-- Merlin-- _five_ consecutive new moons before you drink the potion, so, yeah, still quite a while yet. And then we even aren’t totally crystal about how to do that very last transformation since it’s so damn vague in the books-- but! We know what we’re about now, don't we?” He looks up from his parchment and beams around at the three of them. “Lads…this is the home stretch.”

The room explodes. Peter cheers and James punches the air, as with a raucous whoop Sirius bounds onto James’ bed and jumps up and down. James leaps after him to join, and the bed frame creaks ominously while Peter laughs at them from the sidelines. The two bounce into each other, someone grabs the other in a headlock, and they both go tumbling down onto the mattress, shouting. 

The dormitory door swings open. Remus turns around to see Casey Jordan, bleary eyed, sticking his head into the room. “What’re you playing at?” he says, voice hoarse with sleep. “It’s four o’clock in the morning!”

The two grappling on the bed freeze in tableau. James, with a handful of Sirius’ hair and his knee aimed at his stomach, says, “Sorry. We’ll keep it down.”

“Promise,” Sirius adds, neck stuck at a funny angle under the crook of James’ elbow. 

Casey rolls his eyes and shuts the door. 

Immediately James disentangles himself from Sirius’ limbs to vault onto Remus’ bed. He scoops up a pillow and wallops Remus over the head with it.

“You’re being quiet! This is a joyous occasion!”

“It’ll be joyous tomorrow,” Remus says. “Let’s try not to wake the whole of Gryffindor Tower, shall we?”

“Oh, _fine_ ,” says James, with another pillow smack for emphasis. “Lights off, gentlemen. Phase Three begins tomorrow!”

Once the lamps are put out and everyone’s back in bed, it isn’t long before Remus hears Peter’s snores and Sirius’ mumbling (something about moths tonight, if he’s hearing correctly). But Remus doubts he’ll be getting much sleep tonight.

It’s really happening, then. 

He lies awake staring into the dark, too consumed by guilt to sleep. He feels guilty for betraying Dumbledore’s trust, and his mother, and his teachers who have never treated him differently because of what he is. There’s guilt for James, whose warm heart leads his brilliant brain to recklessness, and for Peter who clings to any chance to prove himself worthy of their friendship no matter how hard they try to make him see that he belongs, and for Sirius…

Oh Christ, he has a completely different sort of guilt surrounding Sirius. 

Remus has long since broken the _no secrets_ oath, he knows it: Sirius goes about his life every day with no idea. He has no clue just how _aware_ Remus is of him, how when a door opens across the room he'll know it’s Sirius without looking. Maybe it’s by smell or the way the air moves or the way Remus always knows where his own legs are without having to look at them, but he notices him; he feels the space he takes up. 

Remus imagines a world in which he keeps the promise he made on the Astronomy Tower, one where he doesn’t have secrets. He imagines himself saying to Sirius…what? _You’re like a phantom limb to me_ or _I watch you more than I should_ or _I’m not sure what it is about your voice_ or even _I’m really glad I don’t talk in my sleep_. None of those would get at the full truth of it.

It’s almost light out by the time Remus falls asleep, and his dreams are uneasy.

 

***

 


	10. sheer heart attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nil igitur mors est ad nos.”
> 
> “My Latin’s bad, remember?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been aiming to update every 2-3 weeks, but I was so excited for this chapter that I couldn't wait, haha.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

  


***

 

Brianna turns from the shop counter, something hidden behind her back. “Got your Christmas present!”

Sirius bolts upright on the sunken, well-worn sofa. “Do I get a go on your motorbike yet?”

“How thick I look, protégé? You’re not to _touch_ it till you’re eighteen.”

He deflates, slumping back to the leather. Was worth a shot.

Brianna weaves her way through the aisles of records and presents him with a large manila envelope. “Got the next best thing.”

Beside Sirius on the couch, Malcolm furrows his brows. “Which is?”

“When I asked the brat what he wanted for Christmas-- _besides_ a ride on the bleeding bike—”

“One of these days,” Sirius says.

“--he said ‘something to piss off my parents’.”

“Of fucking course he did,” Malcolm mumbles around his cigarette.

“Reckon this oughta cover both pretty good.”

Sirius tears open the envelope and pulls out a thick stack of papers in different sizes and textures, some large as posters and others cut raggedly from magazines. He turns over the pile and finds, to his delight, that they’re all of motorbikes: artistic-looking photographs in black and white, brightly coloured shots from advertisements, technical diagrams with labelled parts. Most of them, anyway; when he’s flipped to the back of the stack he sees that there are also several posters of girls in bikinis.

“It’s decor, innit?” she says. “Put em up in your bedroom, stick it to the Man and all that.”

Sirius laughs out loud, and then he can’t stop smiling. He’s gotten good presents before, but this is different. He didn’t know presents could make you feel understood, as if somebody knew what you really wanted before you did. “It’s fantastic. Best present I’ve ever gotten.” He gets to his feet and throws his arms around her. “Thanks.”

When he pulls back it’s to see Malcolm shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you got the lad porn for Christmas. Adult of the year.”

“It’s not _porn_ , you pervert.”

“How d’you reckon that?”

“Not as though their tits are out or nothing. Jesus, Sister Hornby.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes, gets to his feet, stubs his cigarette out on some surface or another. “My present’s more family-friendly.” From his bag he retrieves an EP. It’s a double, with two records in, but there’s no cover, just a nondescript white sleeve. He slides out the first record and situates it on the machine. “You can’t sell this, mind, they aren’t even pressing it in mass copies yet. Just a special Christmas surprise for the three of us.”

Perched on a crate, Brianna levels him a suspicious look. “What contraband you brought into my business now?”

The machine clicks to life, setting the vinyl spinning. Malcolm drops the needle and, with great nonchalance, says, “New Zeppelin.”

“And I’m Goldie Hawn. What’s it really?”

But Malcolm just plops back down onto the couch and lights a new cigarette. A rough guitar lick rips out of the player, followed by a raspy voice.

Brianna’s eyes go huge. She lifts an arm and points, dazed, at the record player. “That’s….that’s Led Zeppelin.”

“I said, didn’t I?”

“But that’s not out until—”

“February, yeah.” He exhales a long stream of smoke. “I know a bloke.”

Brianna’s jaw drops.

“No! Getting stuff a week or two early, that, that’s not— but-- _Led-bloody-Zeppelin!_ ” She jabs an accusing finger at the turntable as it churns out the heavy rhythm. “I’ve got everybody and their mum in here every day asking after this! Supposed to go platinum in advance sales _alone_ , I’ve never seen nothing like it! For you to have this…this…this needs explanation, God dammit!”

“Wow,” Sirius says. “You’d think he had magic powers.”

Taken to angry pacing, Brianna misses the two fingers Malcolm flips Sirius while she’s turned around. Sirius winks back.

Brianna closes in on Malcolm as he lounges on the couch, smoking lazily, and points right in his face. “You know somebody? You shagging somebody? Know somebody in the band? Shagging somebody in the band? Are you shagging somebody in Led Zeppelin?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says. Sirius snickers.

“I bloody well would! I want some answers!”

“Or,” Malcolm says, “you could just sit back and enjoy this lovely new album by the biggest band in England. I’m told it’s rather good. You lot keep asking questions, though, and I’ll snatch it right off the turntable and chuck it into traffic, don’t think I won’t.”

Brianna heaves a sigh. Then she goes to fetch her chair from behind the counter, mumbling darkly under her breath.

Sirius turns to Malcolm. “Can’t I ask one question, though? It hasn’t got to do with the record, I promise.”

“Fine. What?”

He gets it out straight-faced: “What’s Jimmy Page’s cock taste like?”

Brianna bursts out laughing so hard she almost topples off her chair. Malcolm throws his pack of cigarettes at Sirius’ head.

 

***

 

_Dear Peter,_

 

_Happy Christmas! Hope your holiday’s been pleasant, and that all the Pettigrews are in good spirits. Things are quiet here. Mum got me some new shirts that I’ll definitely forget to wear and I got her a new scarf that she’ll definitely ignore in favour of the ratty one she’s had for years. We had our annual book swap, and our annual Christmas afternoon reading session. It’s taken me nearly fifteen years to realise how deeply boring we are._

_Have you heard from James or Sirius much? I’ve corresponded with James and he’s still obsessed with coming up with the best ‘revenge’ prank for Snape. The incident in the forest was so long ago, truth be told I’d forgotten about it. I think I’d hoped that he would’ve as well. This thing between the lot of them is escalating at a rate I don’t like at all. It’s less playful than it used to be, isn’t it? James had all of this talk about ‘knocking him down a peg’-- they’re really out to humiliate him this time. Not that they don’t already do plenty of that._

_The whole thing makes me quite anxious, and I’m worried about what they’ll do. Maybe we could do something to distract them? Divert their attention from this scheme somehow?_

 

_Yours,_

_Remus_

 

***

 

“Y’know,” Malcolm says, pensive, “he was classier before you got your hands on him.”

Sirius snorts. “Classy! I’ve never been classy.” He puts his feet up on the table for emphasis.

“I dunno,” Brianna says, “you always stank like good breeding to me when you was a little lad. Expect it’s that BBC you’ve got.”

“Don’t you talk about my accent,” Sirius says, offended. He’s been sensitive about sounding like the goddamned queen ever since Peter pointed it out first year. He’s never heard the queen talk, granted, but still.

“You’re just jealous, Eliza Doolittle,” Malcolm says, and Brianna sticks her tongue out at him. “But you’re right, I know his family and they’re posh as anything— money’s old as Moses.”

Sirius groans. “Really? You’ve got to bring them up?”

“‘Them’? You talk like you’re not one of them.”

“I’m not,” Sirius snaps, and if it comes out harsher than he meant it to he doesn’t care a bit. “They’re just some people who look and talk like me. I’m not one of them.”

Brianna exchanges one of those glances with Malcolm that Sirius now recognises as the _concerned adults being concerned_ look, and he only feels more irritable.

“I mean,” she says, careful, “I knew your parents was a couple of arseholes, but…they’re _all_ like that?”

For a moment Sirius just looks at her and her kind, open face and has no idea what to say. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Malcolm bite his lip. How do you begin to explain the Blacks to a Muggle?

“They…er,” he says. “Yeah. They’re all bad.”

“Famously,” Malcolm adds. “Famously bad.”

“They big Tories, or what?”

Sirius has no idea what that means, but Malcolm nods. “Yeah, real big ones. Like, Fascist-big.”

“Holy fuck. That’s heavy.” She looks at Sirius with genuine sympathy and says, “I’m sorry, love. That’s rot.”

 _That’s rot._ Nobody’s ever said that to him. People are uncomfortable talking about his family and how utterly shitty they are, and Sirius doesn’t bring it up in the first place if he can help it. He had to go someplace far away from his own world— this cozy Muggle shop, listening to rock music with one of the few adults who actually care about his happiness, to whom his surname means nothing— to hear it summed up.

 “Yeah. I’ll get out of their house, and then I’m gone for good.” He reaches for the envelope of pictures, holds it up. “In the meantime, I can be as irritating as possible.”

Malcolm smiles, slaps him sportingly on the shoulder. “Well, if you wanna rile up your mum I’m sure those girls will do the trick.”

Brianna snickers. “And that’s all the appeal they’ve got, right?”

“It truly is,” Sirius deadpans. The other two take it for sarcasm and laugh some more. It’s fundamental to his own personality, Sirius reflects, that even if he’s the only person in the room who could possibly get a joke, he will make it nonetheless.

It’s better than saying, _Yes, because I’m spectacularly gay, oh also I’m in love with one of my best mates_. Yeah, he reckons. That might be a bit much.

 

***

 

“I’ve got a couple editions of the original Latin, if you’d like to have a look.”

“You know my Latin’s awful.”

“If you’d like to improve it, then.”

Remus peers up from the page to give her a look. “Great holiday fun, Professor.”

Mum rolls her eyes. Her left hand hovers a cigarette over the pea-green ceramic ashtray that’s sat on the end table for as long as Remus can remember while her right marks an endless stack of essays with a red pen. There’s a second pen behind her ear, stuck into her hair hours ago; she’s forgotten it’s there.

Snowflakes drift indifferently past the sitting room window, but the little flat is warm. It smells of tea and menthols and Christmas tree. One of the shamelessly archaic records Sirius once made fun of turns quietly on the machine: an American-accented chirp about _everyday it’s a-getting closer._

Mum waves her pen at him and his blissful state of curled-up-with-a-book. “What d’you think of it?”

“I love it. Bit overwhelming, isn’t it? How this one poet fancied he knew everything?”

She exhales a laugh. “Reminds me of somebody.”

“Unfair,” he argues. “I’d never try to tell you that I knew everything about _death_ , now would I?”

She goes back to her papers, smiling absently. To herself she says, “Nil igitur mors est ad nos.”

“My Latin’s bad, remember?”

She laughs again.

For a while he keeps reading, her pen scratches away; the record clicks to a halt and has to be flipped over. Then Mum says, “You know, you haven’t talked at all about school or your friends since you’ve been home. Why is that?”

Remus keeps his eyes on his book. What is there to say? All the madness of spells and schemes and revenge-- he doesn’t know how he’d translate that here, into this alternate universe of Lucretius and Buddy Holly. It feels far away. He makes a three note _I don’t know_ sound.

 _Tap tap tap_ of her pen against her knee, restless. “I feel as though I don’t know what’s going on in your life anymore.”

 _You really wouldn’t want to_ , he thinks. “They’ve outlawed the Willow Game,” he offers.

“Oh, did they? How’d that happen?”

“They, er.” Remus considers. “First of all, Davey’s eye healed just fine, eventually.”

Mum gives a sound like _tchaah_. “Alright, maybe it’s best I don’t know.”

 

***

 

Usually the shop has regular clientele who stream in and out, most of whom know Brianna’s _protégé_ by name, but business is slow now, late morning on Boxing Day, determined flurries slushing the streets of Islington. The few times the bell on the door does jingle Malcolm leaps up to take the needle off the record, protecting his exclusive Christmas surprise like a state secret. It’s not until halfway through side four that anything of note happens.

A song starts that’s different from the heaviness of the others: an uptempo bluesy sort of thing. Brianna nods her head along for a few bars. “Now this,” she says, “you could dance to this.”

“The hell would you do that for?”

She ignores Malcolm and does a little half-dance in her chair. Sirius laughs out loud.

She narrows her eyes at him. “You’ve got better moves, eh?”

“I could beat your moves any day, old lady.”

“Yeah?” She springs to her feet. “Up you get.”

“Are you challenging me to a dance-off? Is that’s what’s happening right now?”

“Damn right it is,” she says, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to standing. “Bring it on, pipsqueak.”

They dance. Malcolm stares at them.

“Who...” he says, dumbfounded. “Who dances to _Zeppelin?_ ”

“I dunno,” Sirius says, spinning himself under Brianna’s arm for the hell of it. “They wouldn’t put in a mandolin solo if they didn’t want you to dance.”

“Hear hear!” Brianna cries, and Sirius spins her to a stop before Malcolm’s spot on the couch. She looks down at him, eyebrows lifted, expectant.

He frowns. “No. No way.”

Sirius watches her try to keep a straight face, fail, and put out her hand.

Malcolm sighs, declares, “I can’t stand either of you,” and takes her hand. Brianna drags him to his feet, tosses her arms around him, and leads.

They end up in some chimeric blend of the twist, a country two-step, and the whims of Brianna, and don’t notice Sirius edge out of the way. He goes back to the couch, smirking to himself. It’s too easy, honestly. Downright embarrassing.

The song’s fading out in stomps and claps when there’s a knock on the window. They all turn around, and out of the corner of his eye Sirius sees Malcolm drop his hands like he’s burned them. A sandy-haired woman stands outside, tapping on the glass. Brianna groans.

“Shit, my sister— was supposed to go have breakfast with her but I skived off, she’s a right drag— hang on.” She grabs her coat from the counter, throws it on, and runs outside.

The bell hasn’t finished jangling happily behind her when Malcolm rounds on Sirius, expression murderous. “You think you’re clever.”

He sniggers. “I really do, yeah.” Malcolm glares some more and Sirius makes a frustrated noise. “For Merlin’s sake, just tell her, this is getting painful.”

Malcolm starts another cigarette and points it at him accusingly. “And you’re getting mouthier with age.”

“It’s too easy, I didn’t have to do _anything_.”

“Think you’re so clever,” Malcolm repeats, beginning to pace. “This isn’t the bloody Parent Trap, Hayley Mills, so you can fuck off.”

“What?” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Tell her you love her or I’ll hex you.”

“Go right ahead, underage wizard, while you’ve still got the Trace! See if I cover for you when the fuzz comes knocking, eh?”

“Might be worth it,” Sirius sighs. He leans back on the couch with great melodrama. “This cowardice is more than my poor Gryffindor heart can bear.”

“I was Hufflepuff, I haven’t got to do anything stupid just to maintain my ego, thanks much.” Malcolm drops down onto the sofa and lowers his voice. “Look, I’ve got my reasons for not faffing about with the status quo. Things are getting heavy out there, aren’t they? In our world?”

Sirius doesn’t see the connection. “Huh?”

“I mean,” Malcolm explains, “if I told her about-- about that, she’d tell me to piss off and I’d be out of here for good, wouldn’t I? It’s dangerous to be a Muggle in big cities these days and she’s got no idea, she’s a sitting sodding duck! Bri’s tough— any Muggle bloke tries to give her shit, well, I’ll send him flowers in the hospital—”

Sirius tips his head toward the counter. “She’s got a bat back there, I’ve seen it.”

“--but up against magic she’s got nothing, and I’m not about to go splitsville right when she actually needs me around. If I’m allowed to hang round here I can keep an eye out, make sure nothing bad happens, dig?”

“That,” Sirius says slowly, “may be the worst excuse I have ever heard.”

“Is it, yeah?” Malcolm shoots back. “You read the Prophet two days ago? Finally getting onto the front page, isn’t it? Whole family of Muggles killed in their own house! Muggle-hunting’s back and the Ministry’s doing shite-all to stop it, it’s fucking medieval.” He looks at Sirius carefully. “You’re not getting into— into trouble, are you?”

“What, am I hanging out with Death Eaters?” Suddenly Sirius is having a hard time keeping his voice down. “What the fuck, have you _met_ me? Merlin, look where I am right now!”

“Woah, woah,” Malcolm says, recoiling. “Be cool, mate, that’s not what I meant, I know you don’t believe that shit. I just mean...” He pauses. “Times like these, the resistance can get to be just as dangerous.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

He holds his hands in surrender. “Just want to know you’re keeping your nose clean, that’s all.”

“Me?” Sirius gives a short, incredulous laugh and waves at the record on the player. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to tell me how you’re doing this stuff, but I know it’s not legal. What’re you doing, Imperius-ing people?”

“Merlin’s bollocks, no, I’m not a psychopath!” he cries. “Look, small fry-- what I do, it’s just— just—it’s networking, dig? What’s a bit of Legilimency between friends?”

Sirius raises his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me that’s not dodgy. Even I know that’s dodgy, and I’ve got a severely skewed moral compass.”

“I’m not hurting anybody! I’m only—”

“Reading people’s minds to get records for the girl you fancy?”

The door jingles with Brianna’s return. Whatever comeback’s forming on Malcolm’s face, Sirius never hears it.

 

***

 

_Sirius, Wherever the Bloody Hell He's Got To,_

 

_Happy Christmas and Boxing Day and all the rest. I’d wish you it in person with the mirrors but it would seem that you’re never at home to answer and are instead GALAVANTING AROUND LONDON in the FREEZING BLOODY COLD. I can understand wanting to be away from those dickhead parents you’ve got, but at least you wouldn’t freeze your arse off in the house. Where do you go? Do you always go to the records shop? Have those two weird hippies who have adopted you admit they fancy each other yet? That must be where you go most of the time, Remus said you haven’t been to his place once. He said you lot haven’t even been writing, what gives?_

_How was the haul? Mine was excellent. Peter said he got another mad Muggle thing that we’ll love but he won’t tell me what it is. He reckons it’s as good as the Super Ball, but I said NO WAY. Do we still have some of those about? Whatever happened to them all?_

_I wish you’d spend thirty seconds in your stupid house so we could talk revenge plans, because I’ve had OUR BEST SCHEME YET! Just wait till you hear it, the great oily git will never want to show his ugly face again. We’ll have to wait a bit-- it requires a highly banned Zonko’s product and the next Hogsmeade trip isn’t until February, of all the nerve-- but, as we know from our continuing PROJECT ANIMAGUS EFFORTS, the weary passage of time is often required in the course of TRUE GENIUS._

_Come Bloody Home,_

_JAMES WARREN BHARGAVA POTTER_

 

***

 

Late that afternoon, after Sirius has spent the day shut up in his room plastering his new decor to the walls with Permanent Sticking Charms, he hears a tap at his window. It’s an unfamiliar owl, with a lumpy package tied to its legs. He opens the window and takes the package. Whatever’s inside is soft.

There’s a tacky Christmas greeting card stuck to it. It has smiling cartoon snowmen on, looking incongruous indeed with the familiar handwriting, terse and all-capitals:

 

_THIS OUGHT TO PISS THEM OFF_

_HAPPY CHRISTMAS_

_\--MAL_

 

He tears the paper away and finds something red. He lifts up the package and out tumble several Gryffindor banners: different sizes, different shapes, all violently red and gold.

Sirius grins. Grabbing up the biggest of the lot, he jumps up onto his bed to fix it to the wall above the headboard.

He steps back to admire his work-- the posters, the banners-- and feels very much like himself.

 

***

 

_Hi Moony,_

 

_Hope you and your mum are having a nice Boxing Day. I don’t think you two are boring at all-- things sound nice and quiet, and I'm jealous. The only way to get a moment of quiet around here is to go to the cinema (I snuck in and saw the new James Bond which was very good, and The Four Musketeers, which was dull except for the bits with sword fighting) or hide out somewhere. Right now I’m hiding in Nightwing/Yvonne's shed. Clive and Rosemary have got this new game where they tackle me to the ground on sight, and they've been chasing me all over the village since Christmas Eve._

_About the Snape thing. I'm with you that it'd be best if they just forgot about it, but I think there’s a fat chance of it happening. Since when have those two ever forgotten about their sworn oaths of vengeance? We could give distracting them a go, but I’ve no idea what we’d do. If you come up with something you think would work let me know and we can give it a shot. The old Gryffindor try, and all that._

_Did you get any good presents? We didn't have much money this year, as usual, but I did get something in my stocking that'll make James and Sirius go absolutely mad. It's almost as good as the Super Ball of yore. Isn't it funny how easy it is to impress wizards? Something does anything at all without magic and they go bonkers. They’ll love this, I know it._

_Tesla's scratching at the shed door, she's going to give me away. Reckon I better leave._

 

_Cheers,_

_Peter_

 

***

 

_CLACK-shllllllllllink-CLACK-shllllllllllink-CLACK-shllllllllllink._

“It really is something,” Sirius says, voice full of awe.

_CLACK-shllllllllllink-CLACK-shllllllllllink-CLACK-shllllllllllink-CLACK--_

“There’s _no_ spell on it?” James asks Peter for the thousand millionth time. “You’re sure?”

 _CLACK_ \- _shllllllllllink._

“Yeah, pretty sure.”

A final _shllllllllllink_ , a clamorous _CLACK_ , and the slinky stills.

“Again?” James says.

“Oh hell yeah,” Sirius says, and then they’re clattering down the grand marble staircase after the damn thing again.

At the top of the stairs, Peter turns to Remus. “Why don’t they just Summon it?”

“I’ve got many questions, Peter,” he says mildly.

 

***

 

A cold, wet January washes into a cold, wet February. Remus has his fifteenth birthday, which James and Sirius celebrate the night before by filling his bed with rubber snakes charmed to wriggle realistically. They neglect their homework in favour of sitting in the library with half the school’s collection of Transfiguration books, chipping away at what James unfailingly refers to as Phase Three. Remus has a faint hope that his fixation on the Animagus work will distract him from his promised revenge on Snape. The hope doesn’t have much conviction to it.

Overall, things are normal. Remus has his usual catalogue of worries: small teenage wars, his friends’ stupid and deadly ideas, Arithmancy homework. And the other thing. There is, unfortunately, the other thing.

Sometimes he thinks Sirius knows.

Remus might just be paranoid, but sometimes the way Sirius looks at him makes him feel uneasy. Sirius has this way of smiling at him that he doesn’t use on anybody else-- and Remus ought to know, since every moment in his presence he spends either furiously thinking _don’t look at Sirius don’t look at Sirius don’t look at Sirius_ or looking at Sirius. It’s not so much the smile itself as what happens with his eyes, or maybe it’s his eyelashes or his eyelids or something, he can’t describe it, and for some reason he associates this particular expression Sirius gets with the way the common room grate looks after hours when nobody’s fanned the fire in a long time and the embers start to burn low, which is odd because Sirius’ eyes are chilly grey and not like coals at all, and it’s all very stupid and makes no sense.

Remus is losing brain cells over this, he’s convinced.

“What’s taking so long?” Peter says, and Remus has to fight to hear him. It’s the first Hogsmeade trip after the holidays and the Three Broomsticks is packed.

“Doing their usual floor show for Rosmerta, I expect.” The young innkeeper has always found James and Sirius particularly hilarious.

Predictably, when the two do show up with a tray of drinks James is sniggering, Carlos the puffskein bouncing placidly on his shoulder. Sirius, though, looks distinctly put-out.

“What’s wrong with you?” Peter asks, receiving his tankard of hot butterbeer.

“He lost a bet.”

The two sit and James sets the tray on the table. Remus reaches for a cup. He takes a long drink, feeling instantly warmer, and asks, “Do I want to know?”

“You’re about to find out,” James says merrily. Sirius makes a face as James pulls a bottle out of his pocket. “Look what we bought at Zonko’s.”

Remus takes it and glances at the luridly pink label. He squints, confused. “Love potion?”

Sirius groans, James grins. “Nothing like true love to knock ole Snivellus down a peg or two,” he says.

Past James’ shoulder, Remus sees a table of Slytherins against the far wall, Snape in their midst. He’s drinking from a pewter tankard just like theirs. For the first time Remus notices the extra cup on their table that James has brought.

His voice is faint to his own ears: “You didn’t.”

“Not yet we haven’t,” says James. He takes Carlos from his shoulder to hold her in one palm and pet her fur with two fingers, giving the impression of a film villain stroking a cat. “First we had to to do the coin toss, which Black lost, so it’s his hair we’ve used—”

“I already feel dirty,” Sirius says, face drawn in disgust. “Though I can’t deny it’s a brilliant plan.”

“—and next we do the Switching Spell, thanks for that, Minnie—”

Remus interrupts. “You’re going to make Snape infatuated with Sirius?”

Sirius gags. Peter laughs into his tankard.

“Only for an hour or so!” says James. “We’ve just put in a tiny bit.”

“Are you sure that’s how it works? How do you know he won’t be running round like this for days?”

“Read the label, then, it’s all there,” Sirius says. “Believe me, I’d rather this were over sooner rather than later.”

Remus takes the pink bottle, turns it over, reads: “‘Expect Quick Results.’”

“Rip it off like a plaster,” James says cheerfully. Sirius emits a spectacular _euuuurgh_ , and Peter reaches across the table to pat him consolingly on the arm.

“‘Dosage dependent upon weight of recipient and attractiveness of subject’—”

“Shouldn’t need hardly any, seeing as I’m one handsome bastard and he’s a skinny little berk,” Sirius says. “Not that I’ve anything against skinny little berks, mind, seeing as I hang out with this one--”

“‘While effects do strengthen with time, potion will cease effectiveness after expiration date or in the case of extant condition’— ‘Extant condition’? What’s that mean?”

James snorts. “It means we’d better hope it works, because love potions don’t do anything if you already fancy the person. Can’t imitate the real thing, and all that.”

“I don’t think we’re in much danger there. Pretty sure he’d murder me if he had the shot.”

“Love and hate are very similar emotions.”

Sirius picks out a toothpick from the cup in the middle of the table and mimes stabbing him with it.

James ignores him. “Let’s get this show on the road. Black, you do the honours. I put it in the cup with the crack on the side.” He sets Carlos down to roll freely around the table and turns over his shoulder, watching the Slytherins. Peter follows suit.

Remus lowers his eyes and takes a long gulp of his butterbeer, wishing to be anywhere else in the world, anywhere at all. This is evil, even for James and Sirius. He should’ve tried harder to distract them from their _vengeance_ , or tried to reason with them, or--

There’s a thin but distinct crack in his pewter mug. It’s facing out, where Sirius can see it.

His heart stops.

Slowly, like turning around in a horror film when you know the masked killer is right behind you, Remus looks over. At his side, Sirius is staring at him. Really, properly _staring_ : pale grey eyes wide, mouth slightly open. There’s nothing Remus can do, he’s caught, it’s over, he’s been drinking from this cup the whole damn time and there’s no pretending otherwise, and as he watches Sirius with his heart and stomach and lungs lodged right in the middle of his windpipe he sees Sirius’ chest and shoulders fall as a short, sharp breath gusts out of him.

James and Peter are still turned toward the back wall, waiting. James tosses over his shoulder: “C’mon, while we’re young.”

Remus panics. Even if by some miracle neither of the other two see that he has the offending cracked mug, when Sirius switches the leftover un-potioned cup with Snape’s and Snape drinks from it, the jig will be up when nothing happens. Since Snape obviously isn’t the one in this room who’s immune to a love potion with Sirius’ hair in it, it’ll be immediately obvious what’s just happened. And that’s if Sirius doesn’t start shouting right this second about what he’s doubtless just discovered. In a matter of seconds, they’ll all know.

Remus might be sick.

But Sirius is still staring at him. Eyes never leaving Remus, he points his wand at the potion-less tankard and, so quietly Remus only sees the word on his lips, whispers, “Reducto.”

It’s just enough warning to duck before he takes a faceful of pewter shards.

In the commotion that follows the exploding cup, James’ and Peter’s yelps of surprise and James’ ensuing angry shouting, Remus ‘accidentally’ knocks his own cracked tankard to the floor. Already soaked from the explosion, he feels a wave of warm, syrupy liquid wash over his shoes and into a sock.

Pawing the froth from his glasses, James cries, “What the hell was that?!”

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what happened, I must’ve messed up the spell!”

James picks tiny fragments of pewter out of Carlos’ fur, who, to her credit, seems entirely unperturbed, humming happily. “Reckon you did, yeah!”

“I’m gonna—” Remus gestures vaguely at the floor. “Gonna— go get a…”

His diversion isn’t needed; no one’s paying attention. Still, he’s extra careful to pick up his now empty mug in such a way that he covers the expository crack with his hands. He gets away from the table as quickly as he can, avoiding Sirius’ eyes.

Remus waits at the counter, sticky and sodden and hopelessly infatuated, and yeah, he’s going to have to use words for it now. He’s going to have to get used to it. Because now he’s not the only one who knows.

 

***

 

After everybody gets back from Hogsmeade that evening James has Quidditch practise, Peter has remedial Transfiguration, and Remus disappears to Merlin knows where, muttering about finishing his Potions essay. Sirius is left in the dormitory with no one for company but Carlos, humming softly on James’ bedside cabinet, Tesla out hunting mice somewhere.

Sirius needs to get it together. Badly.

The potion was expired. Obviously. Who knows how long it’d been sitting there on Zonko’s shelf when he and James picked it up, right? That’s why it didn’t do anything when Remus accidentally drank it. That’s the only explanation, because the one constant in Sirius’ universe for going on two years now is that every day he pretends he’s not pining pathetically after his friend who’s got no idea he even likes boys (because none of them can know that, he and Lily are going to take that secret to their graves) and could _never_ , never ever in a _thousand years_ return his feelings, because Remus likes girls. Sirius is the gay one here; what’re the chances that somebody else he knows would have this same problem?

He wants to break something.

Ever since Sirius was twelve he’s known that feeling, the one he associates with Remus, where your heart is hot and swollen like an infected thing in your too-tight chest under your too-light head; where your lungs work overtime, your ribs pull open and closed like the spines of an umbrella but no breath gets in and then you’re totally useless with the feeling, a broken umbrella trying to breathe. He’s gotten used to it, that feeling.

This one is worse. Hope hurts.

Sirius sits on his bed, puts his head in his hands, and gives himself a stern talking-to. _He doesn’t_ , he tells himself. _It’s_ impossible _, you stupid berk--  he likes girls, and you’re definitely not a girl. You can’t fancy both, don’t be stupid._

He freezes.

Sirius only found out what being gay was through total chance. And all he knows about it still, he realises, is from a few comments from his dumb kid brother and from _James_. It occurs to Sirius— and what a revelation it is— that he’s completely clueless.

What if you can like both? Maybe you can, how would he know?

His heart beats like he’s just sprinted up four flights of stairs and through a secret passageway to escape Filch (yesterday evening he and James tried out a new Fanged Frisbee and genuinely forgot that they were in front of the teacher’s lounge, no honestly) as he tries to get his thoughts together. Alright, so he might possibly be clueless. How’s he supposed to learn, though? He can’t pop on over to the library and ask Madam Pince for books on being a poof. How does _anybody_ learn about this stuff? Do they write books about it? And who on earth would buy them if they did?

Sirius sits straight up so quickly the bed frame creaks.

A memory presents itself: post-winter hols two years ago in this very dormitory, Remus turning red when they ask him what he got for Christmas. _Well, she got me books_.

It’s the best chance he’s got. Sirius flings himself to the floor, crawls underneath Remus’ bed, and digs through the cardboard boxes where he keeps his books that don’t fit in his bedside cabinet. There are a lot of them.

“Jesus, Moony,” Sirius mutters to himself. “Hoard much?”

He’s flipping through a box of dusty old novels when his fingers hit something plastic. He pushes the paperbacks aside and finds a wrinkly Tesco bag, tied at the top and shoved to the bottom of the box to never been seen again. There are books in it. Sirius allows himself a small moment of victory before hauling the lot out of its box, then he plops down onto his bed and opens the bag. A glance at the covers tells him he’s found what he was looking for. But a glance is all he gets, because at that precise moment the door opens and James walks in.

 _Act natural_ , Sirius tells himself. But then he says, “What’re you doing here?” much more loudly and urgently than he intended and the plan is out the window.

“Practise was cancelled.” James looks at him, suspicious. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“What’re you reading?”

“Nothing. Why was practise cancelled?” New tactic: diversion.

It doesn’t work. “You’re up to something,” James says.

“I’m not!” Sirius cries. New tactic: emphatic denial.

That doesn’t work either, because James vaults onto his bed and wrestles him for the books and Sirius would sooner die than admit that James is better at wrestling than he is but it’s true, and few minutes later Sirius has a whole new kaleidoscope of bruises and James surfaces, victorious, with the books.

His grin is smug and enormous. “These are Moony’s books on picking up women.”

“I— what?” Whatever Sirius was expecting, it wasn’t that. “No, that’s not what they are. Like, _really_ not. From the looks of it they’re more, y’know, diagrams and things.”

But James wags a finger at him. “You can’t fool me. Who’re you trying to impress?”

He doesn’t know what it was he was dreading happening when James walked in and busted him, but this is worse. This is way worse. “Nobody!” Sirius cries, voice cracking a bit. “If you’d open one of the stupid books you’d see that they’re—”

James cuts him off with one hand over his mouth and the other on his shoulder. “Listen. Mate.” He’s doing his ‘proud mum’ smile. It’s horrifying. “I knew you’d get here someday, I did.” He gives him a paternal pat on the shoulder. “Just took you a bit, that’s all! But it’s alright, see? You haven’t got to go looking in _books_ for answers on how to woo the ladies, because you’ve got your best friend-slash-unofficial brother here to help guide you through the murky waters of romance.”

Sirius’ voice is muffled by James’ palm and he knows James won’t understand a word but he says, “You don’t understand, I _really_ don’t,” anyway.

“You don’t know this, but you’re lucky,” James says. “You’ve got a look the modern women die for. You’re a lucky bloke, I wouldn’t lie to you. Listen, you just tell me who the lady is and we’ll make it happen, trust me. Any girl at all, mate, you’ve got it in the bag.”

Sirius shoves his hand out of the way and shouts, “There is no lady! I promise you, there is _no girl at all_ that I am interested in!”

He expects James to keep at it like the stubborn prat he is, but his face falls. He frowns, confused. “Why aren’t you telling me the truth? We tell each other everything.”

James has no idea what he’s talking about, of course, and the lie he thinks Sirius is telling is nowhere close to the lie he really is telling. Still, though, it is a lie. And James is right. Sirius isn’t telling him the truth, and hasn’t been; he’s been lying by omission and sometimes it really does make him feel like shit, breaking their _no secrets_ oath, but it’s more than that, even. Out of everybody on the whole stupid planet, he ought to be able to tell James.

He wishes he were brave enough.

“Listen, I’m not lying!” Sirius says. “I’m not trying to— to wade into the murky waters of love, or whatever the fuck, now get off my back!” He climbs off his bed, paces away to the window.

“It must be somebody you don’t want me to know about, then,” James says slowly. “Is it somebody with a boyfriend already? Are you ‘the other man’?”

“I’m ignoring you,” Sirius informs him, staring out at the bleak grey sky, but James goes on.

“Is it one of our friends’ girlfriends? What’s Casey’s bird’s name, I forget, the freckly one in Hufflepuff— is it her?”

“Lay off!”

“Alright, it’s not that. If it’s not a girl who’s already dating somebody then…who else wouldn’t I approve of?” Sirius isn’t looking at him, but he can almost hear James’ face contort when he says, “Euugh, it isn’t— it isn’t a _Slytherin?_ ”

That turns him around. “No! Absolutely not!”

“I’m trying to remember which ones aren’t awful. Verity Clearwater, is it her? Philippa Pucey? Shirley Warrington? She’s alright, could almost forget she’s one of them.”

“I’m not secretly dating a Slytherin! Shut up!”

Sirius goes for the door and he’s got his hand on the knob when James says:

“It’s Lily, isn’t it?”

He spins around. “ _What?_ ”

James has got an odd look on his face. Carlos’ background humming cuts off as she senses danger.

“It makes sense,” he says. “If you were dating Evans you wouldn’t tell me, because you know I’d be horrified. Because she’s terrible.” James gives a rather robotic shrug. “But really I couldn’t care less. I remember how close you two were when we were kids. It’s fine, I get it. Just thought you’d have better taste.”

Sirius is so shocked he can barely think. _Lily?_ The irony here has gotten out of hand. “Look…”

“Tell me you aren’t dating her, then. Go on. Tell me you aren’t lying.”

Sirius feels dizzy. Him, secretly dating Lily Evans. The idea is so stupid he doesn’t know how to express how stupid it is, so his mouth opens and closes silently a few times without anything coming out, and oh Merlin that was really the wrong time to be dumbstruck because now James is nodding.

“Yeah,” he says, voice thin. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’m pleased for you mate, honestly. Don’t know why you thought you had to lie to me, though, that’s not on.”

“James,” Sirius says weakly, “hang on, this isn’t…”

“No, honestly!” He rolls off of Sirius’ bed and walks past him for the door.“I’m happy for you! Now, I’m just gonna…go to…er…”

And before he can say another word, James is gone.

Sirius shuts his eyes. To no one in particular he mutters, “You’ve got to be joking.” He hears Carlos start to hum again, and takes it as her agreement.

 

***

 

James finds Remus in the library. He’s in their usual nook toward the back and is, as is his custom, ignoring the chairs in favour of sitting on the floor against a bookcase. He hasn’t seen James yet, his face buried in a book. James sits on the floor on the other side of the bookcase, back to back with Remus. Then he turns, peers through a crack in the books, and whispers, “Moony.”

Remus jumps, turns his head, sees James peeking out at him. “What’re you doing?” he says at normal volume. “Come over here.”

“I just felt like being by myself,” James whispers.

“Ah,” says Remus. He turns back to his book and mutters something that James thinks is, “Explains why you came to sit here, out of the whole castle.” He reads quietly.

James sits in silence, looking down at his trainers. Then he says, “Did you know Sirius was dating Evans?”

“He…what?”

“You heard me.”

On the other side of the bookcase there’s a very long pause. Then Remus says, politely, “Are you quite sure about that?”

“Yeah, he told me.”

There’s another pause. When Remus speaks this time, James thinks his voice is a little high: “You’re quite, _quite_ sure?”

“Yeah! What’s the matter with you?”

“It’s just that that seems, er,” Remus says evenly, “a bit unlikely.”

“That’s what I thought too, you’d think he’d have better taste, wouldn’t you? But that’s what he told me.”

“He told you this?”

“As good as.”

“Sirius Black told you that he is dating Lily Evans? In those words?”

“Yeah! That’s what he told me!”

There’s silence on the other side of the bookcase. Then: “Ah.”

“Yeah.”

James doesn’t say anything after that. He doesn’t want to disturb Remus. Like he said, he just wanted to be alone for a bit. This is a nice spot to sit by yourself.

He thinks of one more thing to say, then he’ll be quiet. “Of course I’m glad for him, I just don’t understand why anybody would want to date her, y’know?”

“Mm,” says Remus.

“She’s nasty and snobby and thinks she’s so clever, thinks everybody thinks she’s so great. Everybody loves Little Miss Perfect.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Why Sirius would go for her when he could get any girl he wanted, I can’t understand it at all, boggles the mind. An absolute _mystery_ , you know?”

“I really, really do,” Remus says.

“And then the fact that he kept it secret, that’s what really gets me. We made an _oath!_ I get the impression that they’re trying to stay hush-hush from the rest of the school, and I get that, I do, of course I won’t be telling anyone. If they want to keep it a secret that’s completely fine, and understandable. I just can’t believe he didn’t tell me. Well, any of us, obviously— but, _me?_ Sirius and me are brothers, lying about girls isn’t on. It’s un-Gryffindor, and frankly I think that if—”

Something moves in the corner of his eye, and James shuts up. He sees someone coming out from behind the bookcase adjacent to theirs: a tall fifth year girl whose name he can’t remember but definitely recognises. As she’s leaving she adjusts the strap on her bag, casts a glance behind her, and nods a hello at James.

Still watching her retreating back, James whispers, “Remus, you know her?”

Behind him, he hears Remus crawling to the edge of the bookcase. James sees him stick his head round to look right before the girl disappears round the corner. “Amanda something, right?”

“That’s not the same one who’s best friends with Bertha Jorkins, right?”

Remus’ head, stuck out at a funny angle around the side of the bookcase, turns to look at James. His eyes are wide. “She definitely just heard all of that, didn’t she?”

“Maybe not,” James says. He’s hopeful. “Maybe she didn’t hear anything.”

 

***

 

By dinner, word has spread through the whole castle that Sirius Black and Lily Evans are secretly dating. Sirius would very much like to kill something. Something, preferably, named James Potter.

“Who did you tell?!” he hisses, half-diving across the table. Heads have been turning in his direction ever since he set foot in the Great Hall, and there seems to be a lot more giggling and murmuring suddenly.

James seems very focused on his roast. “Didn’t tell anybody,” he mumbles.

“He was telling me,” Remus says. “We were overheard and…long story short, Bertha Jorkins may have found out.”

Yep, today is the day Sirius finally kills James Potter.

“ _What?_ That idiot? She’s the biggest gossip in the school!”

Peter waves his fork in a _lo and behold_ kind of way, and under his breath sing-songs, “Aaaand here we are.”

Sirius gives a great shout of frustration and drops his head to the table, narrowly missing a platter of string beans. “This is the worst day of my life,” he says, muffled.

“I think you’re being a bit dramatic,” comes Remus’ voice and Sirius could kill him too— _he_ certainly hasn’t made this day any less disorienting.

But then he hears James say, like a bloody martyr, “I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me,” and his anger boils over.

Sirius snaps upright, ears ringing, and cries, “You are the biggest prat alive!”

He drops the martyred look fast. “And you’re a liar!” he shouts back.

“Yeah? Is that what I am?” Sirius can see faces turning to watch them, can feel the room go quieter, but he doesn’t care; he’s had enough of this day, he’s had enough of the universe making fun of him and of James’ jealous bullshit and Remus just— just _existing_ and making him want to die, and he’s so angry that he tastes metal and shouts, “Well, fuck you!”

James slams down his fork. It clangs loudly in the silence that’s fallen; everybody is staring. He gets to his feet. “Fine!” He stands there for a second, arms at his sides and breath coming fast, then mutters, “I wasn’t hungry anyway.” He turns and storms off toward the door.

The silence is pressing. Sirius turns and sees every eye in the hall on him. Some look shocked and scandalised, others excited, and then there’s Remus right next to him, who just looks sad.

Sirius surveys the staring crowd. Then he waves a hand, calls, “Fuck all of you too,” and goes back to his dinner.

There’s an outburst of laughter, which eventually subsides into the usual dinnertime chatter. It’s over this that Professor McGonagall calls from the front of the hall: “ _Black_.”

Sirius stands and ambles up to the High Table to collect his detention, suspecting that this week is only going to get worse.

 

***

 

He was right.

Sirius hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Lily since this all started (he’s been avoiding her out of fear of them being spotted together, and suspects it’s mutual), but he wonders if she’s having the same week he is: the whispering in the corridors, the funny looks, the feeling that somebody only just stopped talking about you when you walked past them.

Or the strange comments. As he walked into Divination on Wednesday, a Ravenclaw boy Sirius has never spoken to in his life came up to him, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Well done, Black!” James somehow ignored him even harder after that, and spent the whole lesson with a look on his face like he dearly wished to smash their shared crystal ball over Sirius’ head.

No matter how horrible of a week Lily’s having, Sirius is jealous of her. She isn’t getting the silent treatment from her best friend. He’s tried talking to James, he’s tried shouting sense into him, but it isn’t working: James stubbornly pretends Sirius doesn’t exist.

After almost a full seven days of misery, Sirius finally decides enough is enough. He’s going to have to talk to Lily.

There’s a Quidditch game on Saturday morning, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, and Sirius makes the most of it. With James out from underfoot, he gives Peter and Remus the slip as they walk with the rest of the school to the pitch. Everyone else files up into the stands to find seats, but Sirius stays down below. He hides behind a beam, ready to put his plan into action.

Granted, his ‘plan’ is less like a plan and more like reaching out, grabbing Lily by the cloak when she comes by, and yanking her in away from the crowd, but it still works.

“ _What— the— hell— Sirius— Black_ ,” comes Lily’s voice from under the flailing tangle of cloak, hair, and scarf.

“Sorry, get a bit twisted up there?”

Giving her cloak one final tug, she resurfaces. “Yes, because you pulled me into the shadows by the collar!”

“When you say it like that it does sound dodgy,” Sirius says, ducking his head around a crossbeam. The wood around them rumbles and creaks as above hundreds of feet shuffle into place. “Reckon these things are sturdy? Took it for granted before, but they seem less so down here—”

Suddenly Lily’s in his space, glaring up at him. She’s a head shorter than him, but he recoils anyway.

“Are you doing this?” she growls. She pulls out her wand and jabs it at his chest. “Can you _imagine_ the week I’ve had?”

Sirius puts his hands up and says in one breath: “Yes I can because I’ve had the same one now please don’t kill me!”

She puts her wand away, but she doesn’t stop glaring. “Whatever cover-up you put yourself through to keep your own secrets is up to you, but you don’t get to drag me into it! I didn’t sign up for a fake gay boyfriend!”

“Neither did I!” Sirius cries. He pauses, waves his hands in frustration. “I mean— you know what I mean! I’m not doing this! This was all James being an idiot!”

“What’s Potter got to do with anything?”

“Long story, alright? It’s all a misunderstanding between me and James and no matter how many times I tell him he’s being an idiot he won’t believe me. He’s convinced I’ve been lying to him for weeks, and therefore committed high treason.” Sirius kicks at the dirt. “He won’t speak to me.”

When he looks up again, Lily doesn’t appear angry anymore. “How did this get out? Suddenly it was all over the place.”

“I dunno. Somebody told Bertha Jorkins.”

She rolls her eyes up at the dusty beams and mutters, “Oh, that makes sense.” Then she looks at Sirius. “You’ve had the same week as me, huh?”

“People keep congratulating me as though I’ve won a bloody Order of Merlin. It’s a trip.”

Lily snorts. “How’s that for a double standard? I’m the most hated girl at Hogwarts.” Sirius frowns; he’s not following. She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know how you can be so oblivious. The best-looking boy in school has no idea. It’s terrifically ironic, really.”

“I…what?”

“Marianne, for example,” Lily continues. “I’m in the same dormitory as her and she definitely wants to murder me in my sleep.”

Sirius blinks. Girls are _baffling_. “Marianne? I sit next to her in Charms, but—”

“It’s relentless. Every time you so much as lend her a quill all of us get the full recap.” She shakes her head. “Poor girl.”

Uncomfortable, Sirius pokes at the beam next to his head. “Yeah, too bad. Even if she were a bloke she wouldn’t be my type.”

Suddenly Lily’s face is mischievous. “Hang on. Have you got a type?” The smirk grows. “Is there a—”

“My type is _‘never you mind, Lily Evans_ ’,” Sirius says in a rush, feeling his face go hot, “so let’s stick to the subject at hand, shall we?”

“Fine, fine.” She crosses her arms, all business. “I want this to die down every bit as much as you do, believe me. I actually am dating somebody secretly and he’s gotten rather shirty about this whole thing.”

“Woah, really? Who?”

He thinks she looks a little embarrassed when she says, “Davey.”

Sirius laughs out loud. “Davey _Gudgeon?_ Bit of an idiot, isn’t he?”

“Yes he is, but I like him,” Lily says with great dignity. “And the both of us would prefer if—”

“Davey Gudgeon,” repeats Sirius. He still isn’t over it. “The bloke who almost got decapitated by a tree, that kid? You’d pick him over me?”

Lily sighs, impatient. “You’re a homosexual, Sirius.”

“Well, yeah, but still.”

“Can you not be awful about this, please? Sev is already being an absolute twat about it.”

“What I can’t understand,” Sirius says, bile rising, “is why you still put up with that— that—” He’s so distracted by the hot hatred that’s risen up into his throat that he can’t find words. “That slimy, evil—”

But Lily’s glaring at him again. “He’s my oldest friend,” she says, green eyes gone fiery. “You do understand loyalty, don’t you?”

“Do _I_ —?” Sirius lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Of course I do. Are you—”

“Then it should make sense to you, shouldn’t it?”

“He’s one of them!” he cries. “You _know_ he is, you’re too clever not to! He is what he is, and might I remind you,” he says, anger overtaking him, “that you are what you are?”

The fire in her face goes away, and something harder replaces it. Her voice low and even, Lily looks him dead in the eyes and says, “I am perfectly aware of what my blood status means these days and I _certainly_ don’t need you to explain it to me, Sirius Black.”

Since they were eleven Sirius could sense this part of Lily, even if everybody else mistook her for prim and bookish. That’s why they made such fast friends, after all. But it’s right now, hidden under the dusty, rickety Quidditch stands that Sirius really _gets_ who Lily is. She’s a kind, sweet person who will keep your secrets and give you her best eye pencil when she feels your need is greater than hers, but her temper flares at disloyalty, at injustice. Her sweetness ends where her Gryffindor starts.

It isn't the sort of moment, in the middle of a crisis at fourteen years old, that Sirius imagines he’ll retain, not the kind of realisation he'd expect to spontaneously remember during a wedding in a distant foggy future that’s really only a handful of years away. He’ll have a lot of surprises like that.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She nods, businesslike. “Well, if neither of us has any solution for this predicament we’re in, I don’t see why we’re still down here missing the match.”

“Quidditch bores me a bit, to be honest,” Sirius says with a shrug. He’s eager to lighten the mood. “Riding around on a broom and throwing stuff at people is fun as anything, but it’s all rules. I can’t see why they’ve got to mess up a good thing.”

It seems to work. Lily laughs.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. She looks at him for a second. “You’re a very….consistent creature, is all.”

“That’s the opposite of what they tell me. Born under Mercury, and all that.”

The words _Remus says I’m ‘moody’_ form in his mouth but don’t come out; it reminds him. Something heavy plunges from his throat into his stomach, he sees an opportunity and he takes it: “Hang on, I’ve a question— are there people who like girls _and_ boys?”

She blinks, whiplashed. “What?”

“Girls and boys-- can you only fancy one or the other?”

Eyebrows making for her hairline, Lily gives him an incredulous look. “You fancy a girl now?”

“No, no no.” He will not be misunderstood _again_. “I’m queer as a copper sickle, not me. Somebody else, maybe. Are there?”

She keeps looking at him funny, but finally says, “Yes, there are people like that. Some. A lot, maybe, I don’t really know.”

Sirius’ lungs have done something strange. They seem to have gotten smaller. Also, his ears are ringing. Really loudly.

“Right. Just wondering.” He casts around wildly, searches for something to change the subject, anything. “Er. You’ve done your makeup very nicely today.” She has. Meanwhile, his knees feel…softer.

“Thank you,” Lily says slowly. She stares at him like she’s working something out and he doesn’t like that look at all. His ears are still ringing.

_There are people like that._

“I can help you with that nail varnish later if you like,” he hears her say.

“Help me?”

Lily grabs his hand and studies his black fingernails. He wonders if she can feel his pulse going mad through his wrist. “See, look, you’ve gotten it all over the cuticle and it’s all streaky, boys can’t do anything right.” She lets his hand go. “I’ll fix it for you later.”

He smiles. “Least you can do for your boyfriend, after all.”

She smiles back at him for a moment, then turns around to duck under the crossbeams and out into the open. When she sees Sirius crouching to follow (difficult, with his knees mysteriously…softened), though, she holds up a hand.

“We can’t have people seeing us leave at the same time!”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Are you telling me people actually go under the Quidditch stands to snog? That’s a cliche, it’s made up.”

“It’s not, alright?”

“How would you know?”

Holding her weight on one wooden beam, Lily leans in, an evil grin on her face, and whispers, “Experience!” She swings herself back from the beam, turns the corner, and disappears.

When Sirius leaves a while later, his ears are still ringing.

 

***

 

It’s been a very strange week for Remus.

James and Sirius bicker all the time; friendly headlocks are a staple of their friendship. This cold shoulder stuff, though, is new. They’ve been the most infamous duo in the school since first year, inseparable from the moment they first stepped off the train, and the stony silence between them has thrown Remus’ entire sense of reality off-kilter.

It’s a quiet and miserable week but, in spite of himself, Remus has the— brief, fleeting— thought that he’s rather glad this happened when it did. The most famous Hogwarts double act engaged in a public and widely discussed silent feud is just about the best diversion he could’ve hoped for.

Remus is trying to be optimistic. He tells himself that surely Sirius is too distracted by the fight he’s in with his best friend on ridiculous, made-up grounds (Remus is about one thousand percent sure he and Lily are not actually conducting a secret affair) to think about the fight he _should_ be having with his other friend on the all-too-real grounds of having a crush on him.

Oh God. He really hopes so.

It’s not until Quidditch on Saturday that Remus speaks to Sirius at all. Gryffindor is already up by twenty points (James just made a particularly spectacular score and is bowing in midair at the uproarious cheers) and still Remus and Peter are alone in the stands. Sirius disappeared on the way up and they haven’t seen him since.

Peter rubs his hands together, whether from the chilly March morning or the old nervous habit it’s hard to say. “Where d’you think he’s got to?”

“Probably just sulking someplace. Give him time.”

On the pitch one of the Slytherin Beaters gets a foul for trying to chuck his bat at James, who laughs hysterically on his broom. “Sirius is telling the truth,” Peter says. “I— I’m, er, I’m rather sure he is, anyway.”

He turns to Peter, who’s back to wringing his hands. “I know he is.”

Peter’s eyes dart around, ensuring nobody else is listening. “Do you. Er.” He swallows. “I don’t suppose you know about, about, er— about—”

“Relax,” says Remus gently. “I know about that too.”

Peter visibly deflates. “Oh thank God, I thought I was the only one. How did you find out?”

“You remember the veela last year?”

“When James got Carlos?”

“Sirius was immune to her.” Remus shrugs. “Veela can only charm you if you like women. Or men who like women, anyway, I don’t know how effective they’d be with gay women. You? How long have you known?”

“I dunno...a couple years?” he says. “I just, er. He’s always been, er, strange when James would— would talk to him about girls or, or whatever, and eventually I just sort of…” His voice trails off. “Assumed?”

“Fair.” Remus sighs. “This could all be fixed if Sirius would just tell him.”

“Or if James would stop being a prat.”

“But we know he won’t do that.”

“And we know Sirius isn’t going to tell.”

Remus nods. “And here we are.”

“Yup. Listen, what if we did something to distract them? Get their minds off it?”

“I don’t know. We couldn’t come up with anything to keep them from trying to drug Snape, could we?”

“It’s different, I think,” Peter says. “We could do something really nice for James, something really fun, and act like it was Sirius’ idea. It might help.”

“It could,” Remus says slowly. “Like what?”

“Well, I was thinking— oh—” Peter gets halfway up from his seat and waves. “Over here!”

Sirius has to crawl over a few laps, but he makes it over to them eventually. He sits on the end next to Peter, for which Remus is quietly grateful. Pushing windswept hair from his eyes, Sirius asks, “What’s the score?”

“Twenty to nothing, you haven’t missed much,” Peter says.

“Far out.” Remus notices that his posture is distinctly tense, and then Sirius’ eyes are flicking over to him, icy grey in the white wintry light. “All right, Moony?”

Remus blinks. “Yeah, why?”

“No reason,” Sirius says briskly. He gestures toward the pitch and says, “Well, I expect I’m allowed to talk now that the paranoid numpty’s out there.”

“You’re _allowed_ to talk whenever you like,” Remus says. Then he turns to Peter. “What was your idea? You said you had an idea.”

“Oh! Yeah. I was thinking,” Peter says to Sirius, “maybe if we— or you, specifically— put James in a good mood, did something nice for him, he’d listen to reason and stop being a gigantic prat.”

“What would we do? A prank?”

“Maybe not,” Peter says quickly. “I was thinking— I was thinking that his birthday’s in a few weeks, so we could, y’know, do something fun for that, and you could lead the project.”

“Like a party?”

“Well, sure.”

“You know, that might actually work,” Sirius says, and a thoughtful, eager look comes over his face. “If I threw him the best party the school’s ever seen, he couldn’t stay mad at me, could he? One that went down in history?”

“That’s what I was thinking, yeah. All of us have been so down lately, and, and— I think it’s a neat idea.”

“This is even better than a prank!” Sirius says with a grin. “We’ll have it someplace brilliant, not the same boring common room thing everybody does, somewhere out of bounds— but we’ll do it after hours!”

“Better than a prank but twice as illegal,” Remus mutters to himself. “Nobody’s getting slipped any potion, right?”

“Probably not, unfortunately.”

Remus nods. “I like this plan.”

 

***

 

The prospect of the surprise party lifts Remus’ spirits a bit, if only because Peter’s excitement is contagious. It also seems to have made Sirius a bit less sulky, now that there’s a plan in the works. It can’t do anything to ease Remus’ terror, however, of Monday’s Care of Magical Creatures lesson.

He’s been doing an alright job of dodging Sirius ever since the _incident_ , but Care of Magical Creatures is the one class they have without the other two. Due to Professor Kettleburn’s routine of having them work in pairs, often performing mundane tasks that leave plenty of room for conversation, interacting with Sirius one-on-one is almost an inevitability. Remus dodged that bullet last week when class was cancelled (something involving an ill-tempered firecrab, Remus heard, and he didn’t inquire further), but he’s doomed for the most awkward lesson of his life today.

He avoids Sirius on the walk to the forest by taking the long way back from Ancient Runes, but he knows he’s only delaying the inevitable. What will Sirius say when it’s just the two of them? What if he brings it up? What if he _doesn’t?_ What if he never mentions it at all, and it stays a horrible elephant in the room that they never acknowledge for the rest of their lives? Remus isn’t sure which is worse.

Professor Kettleburn doesn’t lead the class to their usual clearing, but to a paddock just past the edge of the forest, where unicorns are grazing. Scattered _oohs_ come up from the class.

“Girls, feel free to go over and say hello,” says Professor Kettleburn. “Boys, I’m afraid it’s a lecture day for you and me today.” Stopping a few of the girls who have excitedly rushed forward, he looks around. “Thought I left apples out here for you to give them…” He rolls his eyes. “Forget my own head if it weren’t attached. Boys, would somebody walk back and fetch the bag from the shed for me?”

Further avoiding Sirius isn’t a great long-term plan, but it’s appealing at the moment.

Remus has never been in the storage shed before, but he quickly learns two things about it: the door is very heavy and will close with a loud _thunk_ as soon as you let go of it, and also that when the door’s shut it’s pitch black inside.

Next, he learns that there’s already somebody in here.

“Who’s that?” comes Sirius’ voice, very close by.

He’s alone in a dark shed with Sirius.

“It’s me, sorry, I didn’t realise…”

“I can’t find it, I’ve left my wand in my bag—”

“No need, I think I saw it before the door shut.” Remus’ voice comes out a bit strangled. It’s cramped in here. “I’ll just…”

He takes one step and immediately runs right into Sirius, great, who takes him by the shoulders to switch their positions, spectacular. There’s a tiny gust of warm air on his face, which Remus takes a moment to place as Sirius letting out a short laugh. They’re that close, great. Far out. His heart races, and it’s suddenly a lot hotter than it was. Crouching down to hoist up the lumpy burlap bag of apples only takes Remus a second and he’d rather not light his wand because God only knows what colour his face is right now, so he’ll just turn and go— except Sirius overcorrected and dodged when Remus also dodged and they run into each other again, and this time neither of them move.

There’s hot air on Remus’ face. They’re close enough now, he knows, that he’d hear Sirius breathing if the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears weren’t so loud. His body’s in panic mode: he feels himself vibrating like a bass speaker with the hammering of his heart, shaking him from the inside. _Run run run,_ says his brain.

He doesn’t move an inch. An incredible stillness has fallen.

The shed smells like dust. Something brushes, feather-light, against his face. Sirius’ hair, he realises. Remus is still clutching the stupid bag of apples tightly to his chest as he tips his face slightly, slowly. It’s total darkness but he knows Sirius is following, he feels the air move around him. Their noses brush past each other. Remus feels warm fingertips touch the side of his face; he’s sure he’s not imagining them shaking.

A breath that’s been stuck in his chest comes falling out of him all at once like somebody’s punched him in the stomach. Sirius pulls back. The stillness breaks.

Before Remus can say a word— if he could, if all the air weren’t sucked out of his lungs— Sirius shoves past him and flings the door open. Light spills in and for a second Remus can’t see; he barely catches the sight of Sirius’ robes whipping around the corner and away before the door slams shut, and he’s thrown into darkness again.

 

***

 


	11. the best years of our lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Look who’s thinking like a troublemaker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made an actual formula for calculating the score in the card game. That's how you know I'm invested in this story: I did MATH. 
> 
> I want to thank everyone who's kept up with this ever-lengthening story; your comments make my day, and I love you all. I'm on tumblr, come say hi. Thanks for reading!

 

 

***

 

“What’s up with those two, anyway?”

Peter looks up from his work. They’re supposed to be drawing diagrams of the socket wrenches in front of them. “Hmm?”

“Sirius and Remus,” James says. He points at the door with his quill. “You see them just now? There’s something weird going on with them.”

Peter raises his eyebrows. It’s true: as the four of them split off for Care of Magical Creatures and Muggle Studies a couple of minutes ago, as they do every Monday, there was a moment of indefinable weirdness when Remus and Sirius were left alone. What’s throwing Peter off is that these moments have been happening consistently for around three weeks now. “Yeah, I noticed that,” he says.

“They haven’t been talking to each other lately, have you noticed?”

“I have, yeah.”

“I mean,” James says, then pretends to be absorbed in the socket wrench for a moment when Professor Abbott walks by. “I mean,” he continues, “they won’t even _look_ at each other, what’s with that?”

“You don’t have a whole lot of room to talk, though,” Peter points out.

“Oh c’mon, I talk to him plenty now.”

“Not like you used to.”

“Look,” James says, “it’s like I’ve said: I’ll forgive him when he admits he lied! I don’t care what’s going on between him and Evans, I couldn’t care less, but it’s not about that, it’s about all of us promising to be honest with each other. I wasn’t kidding around that time on the Astronomy Tower. ‘No more secrets’, right?”

“Alright.” Privately, Peter’s of the opinion that James has got a lot of nerve pretending for the last month that _that’s_ why he’s angry about the whole thing. Everybody with eyes knows what the actual reason is. Or at least that’s what Peter’s heard.

Fourth year, Peter thinks, will go down in history as the year their gang discovered the rumour mill. They say Sirius Black and Lily Evans are the school’s new golden couple, even though nobody ever sees the two of them in the same room at once. They say that the famous duo Sirius Black and James Potter are in a fight (stories vary, but some swear they saw them dueling in the courtyard) because, they say, Sirius Black is jealous that James Potter fancies Lily Evans. Then again, Peter’s pretty sure people still say that Remus Lupin valiantly kidnapped a rabbit in second year and to this day hides it in his dormitory, so he can’t blame the rumours for only getting one bit of the thing correct.

It strikes him that what they’re _really_ up to at any given moment would make for much better gossip. He imagines people finding out that James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew are getting closer all the time to becoming illegal Animagi, because Remus Lupin is a werewolf. If everybody only knew the truth, the school would blow up.

And they’d get expelled. And arrested.

Even James doesn’t know the extent of what they’re up to right now. His birthday’s in a matter of days, and the greatest surprise party Hogwarts has ever seen is planned for Saturday— scheduled, that is, around Thursday’s full moon. In theory it’s supposed to be Sirius’ project, but Peter’s been taking care of most of the organising. There’s no magic involved at all, so this is one task he’s sure he can pull off.

It’s been one of Peter’s toughest months in memory: his group of best friends is split down the centre two different ways and it’s left him in the middle, feeling lonelier than ever. If there’s anything he can do to reunite them again, bring them back to their former glory, he’ll do it. He’s risked detention for a lot less.

 

***

 

“What’s the score?”

“Eight hundred and one to seven hundred and thirty-four. In your favour, of course.” Peter makes a face, sits back against the crooked roots of their beech tree. “I think maybe we ought to impose a handicap.”

“Not our fault you two are bad at cards,” Sirius points out.

“Just this round, then?”

“Why?”

“The other half of my team isn’t _here_.”

James puts down a card, waves away some smoke. “It’s a poor workman who blames his tools.”

“That…that saying doesn’t make sense here.”

“You don’t make sense here. Your go.”

Peter plays a card. “Have you got Quidditch today?”

“No, why?”

Sirius is next, but he can’t parse James’ expression, so he plays a card at random. It promptly bursts into flame. This tiff of theirs is affecting their card playing, he’s noticed. How did they used to do it? Before, Sirius could get _play a king now, save your spades for later_ from a quirked eyebrow.

Peter puts out the small grass fire by smacking it with _Numerology and Grammatica_. “Thought we’d go visit Moony. He must’ve been up for hours by now.”

“Yeah, good idea,” James says, sweeping the cards back into a stack. He gets to his feet and Peter follows suit. “We can all play a hand in the hospital wing without you whinging about handicaps. Black, shake a leg.”

Sirius hasn’t moved; he’s too busy thinking of an excuse. “I’ve an essay to write.”

James looks at him funny. “We haven’t got any essays right now.”

“We’ve got an essay?” Peter says, worried.

“Care of Magical Creatures,” Sirius invents. “Bowtruckles.”

“Sounds dead boring.”

“Yeah, it is, Muggle Studies sounds way cooler,” Sirius says, making a show of pulling books and parchment from his bag. “Dunno why I signed up for this instead second year.”

 _Because Remus was taking it_ , his mind answers. Unhelpfully.

Sirius snatches up the closest book and hides his face behind it. “Go on, I’ll catch up with you lot later.”

But he hasn’t sat there for longer than a minute or two, staring blankly at whatever book this is in front of him, when he hears fast footsteps approach. He looks up: Peter’s back.

“Told James I forgot my cloak,” he says.

“You’re wearing your cloak,” Sirius says.

“I mean.” Peter shrugs. “He didn’t notice you were reading _Unfogging the Future_ for your bowtruckle essay, so.”

Sirius looks down at the book in his hands. He pauses. “Touché.”

Peter doesn’t ask why he’s avoiding Remus, even though he’s obviously noticed; it’s been weeks of this, he can’t _not_ have. He and Remus have been on weird terms before, but this— the ducking out of whichever room the other’s just entered, the awkward silences, the deliberate lack of eye contact— it must look pretty strange from the outside. It’s one of Sirius’ favourite qualities about Peter: he knows when to mind his business.

“I just wanted to check on the plan for tomorrow,” Peter says.

“Hmm.” Sirius goes through his bag again, and this time he withdraws his two-way mirror. “This, for starters. I’ll nick James’ tonight.”

Peter takes it delicately, as if it were a priceless artifact or a baby animal or something. “Wow.” Running his fingers around the edge of the mirror, he says, “You really mean business, don’t you?”

He grins. “Whenever do I not, Pete?”

 

***

 

“Mister Bigger-Than-A-Mouse, do you copy? I repeat: Mister Bigger-Than-A-Mouse, do you copy?”

Peter’s face comes into view in the mirror, frowning. “I still don’t like my codename.”

“If you’ve got a better one, I’m all ears,” Sirius says. He picks the mirror up off his bedside cabinet to pace around the dormitory with it. “And stick with the protocol.”

Peter sighs. “Yes I copy, Mister Pad Feet.” He rolls his eyes. “See, yours is stupid too.”

“Stop whinging, have you got everybody? Any problems?”

Peter nods, then his face swings out of view again as he lifts his (Sirius’) mirror overhead. In the dark Sirius gets the faint impression of a crowd, all of whom begin immediately shouting and waving at him. Peter comes back into frame. “We’re still doing the lights, it won’t be so dark in a bit.”

“Everybody get there alright?”

“Yeah, er, Samir and Carol had some issues with a faulty Disillusionment Charm and there was a spot of bother with Ralph and a suit of armour, but all in all it worked out much better than expected, really.”

There’s a great deal of noise in the background, and Sirius can’t remember exactly how many invitees were on that list they slapped together, but— “How many people have you got up there?”

“Er.” Peter looks over his shoulder. “Word seems to have spread a bit. Quite a bit.”

“So what you’re saying is that half the school is up there.”

“At least.”

“ _Excellent!_ ”

Sirius is delighted with this turn of events, but Peter looks rather nervous. “We— er, we’re good whenever you can get him up here. Quickly, will you? I’m a bad host.”

“Copy that. I will be up with Mister Prong-y Things shortly.”

He puts the mirror away and takes the stairs at a run down to the nearly empty common room. James sits by the fire with his arms outstretched, letting Carlos roll herself back and forth over his shoulders from one wrist to the other. He looks up when Sirius comes in but doesn’t say anything.

Sirius sits down on the carpet next to him. “Wow, she’s got some great balance.”

“Huh,” James says.

“Listen, I heard that the Slytherins have got an Astronomy lesson tonight, wanna go up and Dungbomb the place?”

James makes a noncommittal sound, ducking his head to let Carlos pass. “Don’t feel like it.”

“Are you feeling alright? Are you feverish? Are you hallucinating?” When James doesn’t answer, Sirius feels himself getting very irritated very fast. “Is this still your stupid fucking grudge? I don’t even know what it’s about anymore.”

James rolls his eyes. “Give me a break. You know what it’s about.”

In this moment Sirius finds himself presented with two options. He can stand here and try, as he has been for a month, to shout sense into his eternally rock-headed best friend while the greatest surprise birthday party of all time awaits upstairs. Or he can snatch that best friend’s beloved androgynous puffskein right off his shoulder and sprint out the portrait hole with her raised over his head, screaming, “BETTER COME CATCH ME!”

It was never even a question.

He’s halfway down the corridor by the time he hears the echoing slam of the Fat Lady’s portrait, shortly followed by the rapid-fire slap of trainers on stone floor. “Give her back, you LUNATIC!” James calls after him. “It’s after hours, you’ll get us both detention!”

At the end of the corridor Sirius spins to a stop. He lifts Carlos high over his head, gives his most evil smile, and says, “Better run fast, then!” He’s off again.

It’s times like these that Sirius is really glad that the two of them know the castle better than anybody, because even without James sprinting after him and Filch showing up to join the chase any second now, this wouldn’t be an easy trip. Sirius has got to make it down four flights of stairs to the third floor to even reach the staircase up into the tower itself, and he’s got to do all of it without dropping Carlos, getting detention, or being tackled by James.

“I’m—doing this—for you!” Sirius pants, skidding around a corner. “You’re lucky—I love you—you stupid—twat!”

“I’m—an—athlete!” James gasps. “You—can’t—outrun me!”

Sirius hits the staircase and flings himself down four steps at a time. “You sit on a broom, I’ve spent the last six years running round London,” he throws over his shoulder. “You tell me who’s got better endurance.”

It’s about time, it was making him nervous that it hadn’t happened yet: as he passes the fifth floor landing,footsteps come hurtling toward them from the corridor.

“ _Students out of bed!_ ”

“Ah, there we go,” Sirius says, thinking fast. “Hold on tight, Carlos.” He stuffs her into his pocket. Without stopping to think, without wondering about the likelihood of breaking his ankles, he skids to a halt on the stairs and vaults himself over the marble bannister.

It’s a longer fall than he expected.

Even though he bends his knees like you’re supposed to, he still ends up on his arse on the landing. Nothing’s broken, though, so he springs up fast, whips Carlos out from his pocket, and declares, “We’re good!” He hops onto the bannister and slides down. “ _Onward!_ ”

“Oh yeah?!” James shouts. He follows him over the railing, lands on his feet, and charges on.

Sirius hits the third floor landing with James right behind him. “Shit.”

“What the fuck is WRONG with you?!”

“Inbreeding, probably,” he pants, keeps running. “How’s Filch?”

The cry from the stairs is like an answer: “ _Students in the corridor!_ ”

Time for more quick thinking, then. He throws a wild look around the corridor and spots the statue of the hunchbacked witch that the Slytherins boobytrapped that one time.

“Armistice!” he cries, seizes James by the scruff of the neck, and hauls him behind the statue.

“We won’t fit!”

“Be scrawny, that’s what you’re good for,” Sirius shoots back, squashed in next to him. “Your leg’s sticking out!”

He needn’t have worried: Filch runs right past them, hellbent and tunnel-visioned, and disappears around the corner. They wait until his footsteps have faded completely, at which point Sirius, puffskein in hand, shoves James, hip-checks him to the floor, and takes off again. It’s a cheap move, very un-Gryffindor, but what needs must.

“Only…a little…further…now,” he gasps. There’s the corridor up there, he can see it— the one right above the entrance hall, that leads to the spiral staircase up into the Astronomy Tower— but knocking James down didn’t set him back long, he’s got good reflexes from Quidditch, damn him— and there’s a hell of a stitch growing in Sirius’ side right now—

They’ve reached the corridor; he swings the door open by its brass ring and oh bollocks, stairs. So many stairs.

Yeah, that’s not happening.

“Fine,” Sirius says. His whole body is on fire. He crouches over and gasps, “Fine! Here, here’s Carlos.” He holds her out to James. The whole affair doesn’t seem to have rattled her in the slightest, though it’s hard to say.

James takes her and deposits her onto his shoulder. Even while clutching his side he looks totally confused. “What’s…this about?” he pants. “This all for…Dungbombing Slytherins?”

“It’s,” Sirius says, then stops.

Oh, fuck it.

“Just come up to the Astronomy Tower with me,” he says.

James looks as suspicious as any person battling to breathe can. “Why?”

“Just…” Sirius sighs. “Trust me, alright? I’m asking you to trust me, as your best friend, just…just do me a solid, and come up to the fucking Astronomy Tower.”

Hesitantly, James nods. “Alright.” He sits down against the wall. “Let me catch my breath first.”

 

***

 

The best part is that James is actually surprised.

There’s no furniture for people to jump out from behind, but everybody shouts “ _Surprise!_ ” anyway. Arm tossed around his shoulders, Sirius stands with him in the doorway of the tiny vestibule that opens out onto the tower.

As the crowd envelops them, Sirius leans in to James’ ear. “Do surprises count as secrets?”

A huge, honest, goofy grin breaks over his face. Sirius is so damn glad to see it again. “If they do, feel free to break the oath next year too,” James says. “This is…”

It’s spectacular. Shining in the three hundred and sixty degree sweep of stars overhead, the just-past-full moon floods the scene below in pale light. The stone floor at the top of the Astronomy Tower is dotted with blankets and cushions swiped from common rooms and dormitories, patchworking it in House colours; food and drinks have been laid out here and there, where people lounge around makeshift picnics. The magicked turntable is tucked into a crenellation in the rampart wall and a few brave souls attempt to get the dancing started.

The crowning detail, though, one that must’ve been quite last minute because it takes Sirius by surprise, is the lights. While the heavy white moon throws some faint illumination onto the partygoers, the majority of it comes from dozens of floating glass jars hanging gently in the air. Each one is filled with bluebell-coloured flames that Sirius recognises— the same fire that Remus conjured for them in the Forbidden Forest. The effect is like standing on the ocean floor.

The faces of just about everybody he’s ever spoken to, met, or heard of at school swim in and out of focus in the waving blue light. He doesn’t know how long he spends moving through the party with James, chatting and laughing and riffing about how difficult it is to get somebody so bloody-minded to climb the Astronomy Tower for no reason. It’s another world up here, up on the highest point of the school, so high up and cut off that even Filch won’t hear the ruckus they’re making. Sirius feels like he’s dreaming.

Eventually he tracks down Peter. He’s by the dance floor; Sirius sees him avoid being knocked over by James and Marco who are, inexplicably, waltzing.

“The lights! They’re brilliant! Was that all you?”

Peter laughs out loud. “Merlin, no, I couldn’t get the spell to work myself. I just nicked the jars and told everybody else the incantation.”

“Somebody’s got to nick the jars, haven’t they?” He claps Peter on the back. “It looks great.”

“Thanks. It’s a great spell.”

“Where is he?” Sirius asks. He looks around.

“Who?”

“Remus.”

“You haven’t heard? Madam Pomfrey won’t let him out.”

Just like that, Sirius’ dreamlike high is gone. “He’s not coming?”

“No, he, er,” Peter says, clutching at his hands. “The moon was worse than— than they thought it’d be, I guess. He didn’t tell you?” Even in the blue light his face goes blotchy red. He backpedals: “I mean, I reckon you just haven’t, haven’t gotten around to visiting him—”

“Don’t play dumb, Pete. It doesn’t suit you.”

He drops his eyes. “Sorry.” Almost soft enough to be drowned out by the music and noise, he says, “I didn’t want to ask.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“What…what happened?”

Sirius tells him the truth. “Nothing.”

 

***

 

The party goes on, its volume dissipating into the open air high above Hogwarts. Quiet and bookish Jeanette Turpin surprises everybody by bringing out a crate of firecrackers, and the night lights up with sparklers. And it turns out that somebody, history will never remember exactly who, brought firewhiskey.

James Potter is the life of the party, cracking jokes and goofing around. He was also spotted dancing with Florence Bode about half an hour ago, despite claims from some that he’s still hung up on Lily Evans. Over the next week these people will maintain that they never said such things, and they knew about James and Florence all along.

Sirius Black is cheerful but unusually subdued. Remus Lupin is nowhere to be seen (he’s ill, they say). And Peter Pettigrew— though nobody else knows this but Peter Pettigrew himself— is pressed against the door on the inside of the Astronomy Tower vestibule, wishing his feet would move.

He could get in big trouble for this. Like, more than the usual detention and ten points from Gryffindor, _big_ trouble. Howler from home type trouble.

But his group is fractured; his friends need uniting. This mission is essential. And Peter isn’t brave but he can fake it, he thinks as he wills himself down the stairs, and they often amount to the same thing.

 

***

 

Remus is moping and he’s man enough to admit it.

He tried everything with Madam Pomfrey. He tried whinging and pleading and promising to rest, but she wouldn’t budge. She locked the heavy double doors for the night and shut him in and now Remus is stuck here, lying in bed in the hospital wing. There’s no way he’ll be able to sleep; he’s too busy imagining all the fun a decent portion of the school’s population is having up on the Astronomy Tower without him. His best friends are up there, this is supposed to be the grand event that will reunite them again, that will cement their status as legends. He’s stuck in bed for it.

Sometimes the intense pain and crippling social stigma aren’t the parts Remus dislikes most about being a werewolf. A lot of the time it’s just so bloody _inconvenient._

Remus is staring at the ceiling, moping, when he’s startled by a strange clicking sound. He sits up. It’s coming from the double doors, and he’s just wondering if he ought to get up and investigate when they creak open.

Peter’s head pops into view. His face is flushed, sweaty, and a bit terrified as his eyes find Remus. “Er, hi.”

“How did you get in?” Remus gasps, lurching out of bed. “ _Alohomora_ doesn’t work on that door, I know, I’ve tried!”

Wordlessly, Peter holds up a bobby pin.

Remus smiles. He’s impressed. “Look who’s thinking like a troublemaker.”

“Those two don’t get it all to themselves, do they?” Peter says. “Let’s hurry— I’ve only just missed Peeves.”

 

***

 

If Sirius is glad about one thing tonight, it’s that James seems to be having too much fun to remember that he’s angry with him. It’s almost like before: how they keep wandering off to different areas of the party for a few minutes only to somehow end up attached at the hip again. Sirius isn’t having as much fun as James is, but he’s at least happy about that. Or he is for a while, anyway, until James says something stupid and ruins it.

The two of them are relaxing on a thick red and gold afghan somebody stole from the Gryffindor common room, a blue jar bobbing happily over their heads. Everybody just finished singing “Happy Birthday” and they have plates of cake in their hands. A firecracker of unknown origins explodes on the floor in front of their feet and sends up a jet of silver sparks.

It’s the first time it’s been just them since they got up here. Sirius wonders if he might take this opportunity to breach the topic of James being an idiot prat who won’t believe his best friend. Before he can bring it up, though, James says, in a carefully casual voice, “You can go sit with her if you want.”

For half a second Sirius has no idea what he’s talking about, but then he takes notice of a particular redhead who happens to be sitting with her friends in Sirius’ field of vision while he stares vacantly into space and oh Merlin’s fucking _bollocks_ , this has gotten _ridiculous._

Sirius puts down his plate. “Okay, you know what?” He gets to his feet, looks down at James, and says, “Dig this.” Then he storms off before James can open his stupid mouth.

He shoves his way through clusters of people and he might’ve just made Rodney Stebbins dump butterbeer all over Priscilla Vane, but whatever. Lily looks very surprised indeed when Sirius steps up to where she and her friends sit and announces, “Darling, we need to talk.”

A few people make teasing _Ooooh_ noises and somebody else wolf whistles, but Lily just raises her eyebrows.

“Fine.”

Sirius grabs her by the wrist and pulls. There’s more scattered catcalling; Lily’s face is unreadable.

The second they’re out of earshot, though, she changes her tune. “What are you _doing_?” she hisses. She’s looking at Sirius as if he’s gone mad but still he drags her to the very centre of the party, the crowd on all sides. “We’re in the middle of—”

Sirius stops, spins around, and takes her by the shoulders. He leans down to speak into her ear: “I want you to know that outside of those three you’re the best friend I’ve got in the world.” Then he shoves her away with both hands, staggers backwards, screws his face up in anguish, and cries: “What do you mean you’re _breaking up with me?!_ ”

 

***

 

“You know,” whispers Remus as he and Peter creep around yet another dark corner, “it occurs to me that I’m still in my pyjamas.”

Peter gives him a surveying look. “Eh, you’re fine. It’s the weekend; most people are in Muggle clothes anyway.” In the dark Remus sees him smile as he takes the heavy brass ring of the door in front of them and pulls it open. He gestures up the spiral staircase, beaming. “After you!”

 

***

 

Sirius is standing in the middle of the whole bloody world, shouting.

“What do you mean, you’re _breaking up with me?!_ ”

As James stares, open-mouthed, a hundred eyes swing around to fix on Lily.

“Er, yes,” she says loudly. “The truth of it is, I find you annoying.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Sirius fires back. “You— you— chew loudly!”

Lily puts her hands on her hips. “And you’re an ill-mannered ruffian who abuses furniture. Chair legs ought to stay on the floor where they belong, Sirius!”

“Ill-mannered or not, at least I can spell! ‘A lot’ is two words! _Two words!_ ”

“You’re the most overly-dramatic person I’ve ever met!”

“Oh, please!”

“You are!” she exclaims. The two of them are getting progressively louder. “What about that time in Charms when there was a spider on your desk and you screamed so loudly that Professor Flitwick fell off his chair, huh?!”

Sirius, shocked and affronted, positively roars, “SPIDERS ARE GROSS, LILY!”

“You’re— you’re—” Lily stammers. She stares Sirius down and for a moment her mouth works, no sound coming out. Then, her audience rapt, she explodes: “ _You spend way too much time on your hair!_ ”

James hears several people gasp.

Sirius stares at Lily for a moment, dumbstruck. Then in, a dangerously calm voice, he says, “I will have you know,” he gestures at his head, “that this is _genetic_.”

“Is it, though?” There’s a devious look in her eye. “Or do you use that smoothing spell on it that I showed you second year?”

Sirius spends a moment gaping theatrically. It’s an expression of offended silence, but it doesn’t escape James’ notice that he gets his voice back the second the laughter from the onlookers subsides. “Well,” Sirius announces. “I suppose it’s better that we go our separate ways, then.”

“Yes, I agree.” She sticks a hand out. “Goodbye, Sirius. It’s been fun.”

He gives her hand a firm shake. “Goodbye, Lily.”

With a small nod, Lily turns on her heel and walks back to her friends. James catches her in a small, private smile.

Everybody else watches Sirius, who stands alone in the middle of the floor. There’s a strange moment in which not one person in the whole party knows what to say. Sirius has a particular gift for breaking moments like these. He tosses his hair from his face, clutches a hand to his heart, and with great melodrama proclaims, “Can’t you lot see my heart’s been broken? Somebody fetch me a drink!”

Everybody laughs, and the tension shatters. The crowd shifts again, shuffling to fill the space Sirius and Lily had claimed; the party falls back into noise and harmony. Everything’s back to normal and everybody’s having fun again, except for James, who is left alone on a scratchy blanket with the sudden knowledge of what a profoundly enormous hippogriff’s arse he’s been.

***

 

Remus stands in the doorway of the party, his blue fire spell painting the night like something from a dream, or a hallucination, and watches the scene conclude. He’s riveted to the spot.

Peter’s looking at him. “You alright?”

“This…” says Remus. He should put an actual sentence behind that. He thinks for a moment. “This has all gotten awfully fucking stupid, hasn’t it?”

“What?”

“Secrets. All of this, all the…” He waves vaguely into the murky blue crowd, reassembling itself after Sirius and Lily’s little display. “It took all that to get James to trust him again.”

“If I had to guess,” Peter says slowly, “the intent of that stunt wasn’t necessarily to make people think those two weren’t together anymore, but to makes James realise that the whole thing was never real in the first place. I mean,” he adds, “if you actually know either of them at all, it’s pretty obvious that that was a bit— a bit, er, theatrical.”

“Yeah, exactly! I…” Remus hasn’t got a clue what he’s trying to say; his heart races and he doesn’t know why. “The lengths we go to. It’s absurd, it’s…”

He breathes in, and suddenly everything feels very easy. A laugh falls out of him, effortless. “It’s absolutely goddamn ridiculous,” he says. “It really is.”

Peter looks concerned. “You’re looking a little…manic. Do you need to go back to the hospital wing? Because I can take you back, no problem.”

“Remember that dumb oath we swore up here?” he asks. Maybe he is a bit manic at the moment. “To always be honest with each other? ‘No more secrets’, remember that?”

“We haven’t done such a good job of it, have we?”

“No, we haven’t,” Remus agrees. “There’s always something somebody’s not saying, some elephant in the room or some stupid, inane secret or some guilty feeling nobody wants to own up to, and it’s so ridiculous. That— that is—” He’s tripping over his words as they tumble out of him. Maybe it’s because for once he isn’t monitoring them carefully, they aren’t strained through the filter between his brain and his mouth, and his body doesn’t know how to handle that shock to the system. “That’s the sort of thing that will wreck us eventually.”

Peter looks at him some more. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m…” Remus searches his newly unbound brain for the right word.

“I’m swell,” he decides. He takes off across the party.

 

***

 

James crosses the floor and reaches Sirius, finding him with Dirk, Davey, and Casey around him, the bottle of firewhiskey (which has mysteriously refilled a few times already tonight) in his hand. Sirius edges over to let James into the cluster, raises the bottle to him.

“I ought to get dumped more often,” Sirius says with a grin. “Cheers.” He takes a drink and immediately splutters and coughs. “Oh, that’s awful.”

James wants to go hide in a corner for the rest of his life, but he makes himself speak. “That was fake, wasn’t it?”

Sirius makes a gesture like punching himself in the face while the other three laugh.

“Yeah mate,” Dirk says, putting a consoling hand on his shoulder. “The whole thing’s been fake.”

“Only what I’ve been saying for a _month_ ,” Sirius mutters to no one in particular.

“You weren’t the only one who believed it, don’t beat yourself up about it,” Davey chimes in. James thinks he looks a bit embarrassed.

“But—but I’m—” James stutters, while guilt and remorse continue to pool hotly in his stomach, “ _I’m_ not supposed to be one of the ones who believes the dumb rumours! I’m his best mate, I should know better!” He really wishes there weren’t other people around right now.

On cue, Casey takes his best friends by an arm each and starts to lead them away. “Fellas, let’s let them fight it out in peace, yeah?”

James rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jordan.” Casey winks, and the three of them disappear into the crowd.

In all the the noise and the crush of people, the two of them are good as alone. James turns to Sirius. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“No it’s _not_ ,” James says, and he was having so much fun just minutes ago and now suddenly he thinks he might be overwhelmed by despair any second now. “We’re best friends, Black, I don’t take that lightly. Not trusting you, and for so long, over something so stupid…it was the height of disloyalty, it was. I really hope you forgive me for that.”

The casual indifference on Sirius’ face fades away. He smiles. “Yeah, I do. It’s not your fault you’re such an idiot, after all.”

“Really isn’t, that’s all biology. It’s a condition I’ve got. Just like how you can’t help how ugly and poncy and inbred you are.”

“Quite right.”

“I won’t be pulling this kind of shit anymore, believe me,” James says, earnest again. “We’ve got to trust each other, completely. I mean, if I can’t trust you I can’t trust anybody, right?” He squares his shoulders. “From now on, whatever you tell me is true I’ll believe.”

A funny look comes over Sirius’ face. He stares fixedly at James’ left shoulder, like he’s thinking hard.

James frowns. “What?”

Sirius looks at him for a second. Then he blurts, “I’m gay.”

That…throws James for a loop. A bit of one. A small loop.

He blinks. “Pardon?”

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Sirius looks up at the sky. His eyes stay fixed up there and away from James when he says, all on one breath: “I never went along with any of the set-ups you gave me and I always got weird when you tried to talk to me about girls and I shouted at you when you thought I was trying to get tips on picking up women because I’m gay, you _stupid_ fuck.”

James doesn’t know what to say. He was pretty damn shocked there for a second, but now that he thinks about it…

Well. Mostly to himself, he breathes, “Wow, that makes a lot of sense.”

There’s clear relief on Sirius’ face when he says, “Look mate, you’re a brother to me, but you’re about as observant as a brick wall.”

He nods, conceding. “Yeah, reckon you’re right on that one.”

There’s a pause, filled by the sound of a small explosion and surprised scream nearby. Then Sirius says, “Is that it? You haven’t got anything else to say to that?”

“What else would I say?”

“I dunno. Maybe— Merlin, I’ve no idea. This isn’t…y’know… _weird_ for you?”

“I just gave you a big girly speech about how much our friendship means to me and you think I’m gonna be bothered that you’re gay?”

“I thought you would be a bit, yeah,” Sirius answers. “I haven’t hung onto this information for two years for kicks, you know.”

Now James is the frustrated one— this kid has got the gall to call _him_ stupid every other day. He rolls his eyes and says, “You don’t fancy me, do you?”

Sirius makes a face like he just swallowed bubotuber pus. “Christ, no.”

“Then who gives a shit?” James says. “Geez, two years, really? I can’t believe I’m the first person to know!”

He thinks Sirius is about to speak but then something _really loud_ happens, some sort of sharp crack James feels ricocheting in his skull, and his eyes sting with bright yellow light and something hits him like a splash of hot water and next thing James knows he’s flat on his back, staring up at the starry sky. His head hurts.

He hears somebody shout, “Oh my God, sorry, sorry sorry!”— Marianne, he realises— while somebody else laughing their arse off, and that’s definitely Florence. James starts to climb to his feet, and feels himself being helped up by hands on his arm and back. Once he’s standing and his brain gets back on board, he looks over at who has their arms around him.

It’s Florence. Some honey-brown curls have escaped from her messy ponytail and brush over her cheeks, which are lifted into a huge grin that goes up to her eyes, which happen to have exceptionally long lashes and James has thought this before (once, notably, in the middle of a match when she was hovering in the air next to him and he nearly took a Bludger to the face in distraction) but _wow_ she’s pretty.

She’s also laughing at him. “I’m sorry, but that was really funny,” she says. “You should’ve seen yourself, it was hilarious.”

Then Marianne’s voice makes James look round. She holds an extinguished firework and looks horrified. “I’m so, so, so sorry! I didn’t realise it’d— are you okay?” She peers over James’ shoulder. “Where’d Sirius go?”

James turns around and, yeah, Sirius has magically vanished. What the hell? “He was just here…”

Marianne bites her lip. “I hope he isn’t hurt, it must’ve gotten him too. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He runs a hand over the back of his head. “Bit of a headache, but…”

“No lasting damage, then?” says Florence. He’s definitely standing fine by now, but she’s still got her hands on him. She smiles and asks, “Want to go dance some more, then?”

“Er…” says James. He should go find Sirius, he knows he should. This is a big moment in their friendship, he should follow up. But…

He looks down at Florence and, deciding that they left off in a good spot anyway, grins and says, “Sure.”

 

***

 

Remus is still in his goddamn pyjamas.

It’s freezing up here in the breeze with only a t-shirt and flannel pyjama bottoms, but he doesn’t notice much. He can feel his heartbeat in his legs and fingertips and forehead, which is weird because while his body is rioting his mind feels…well, not quite _calm_. As if everything is suddenly a lot easier.

It’s funny how he got used to it, keeping secrets. It all started with that big one when he was five years old and since then he’s never been able to quit it; here he is, ten years later, still shutting up, hiding the truth, keeping it in. Everything unpleasant or scary or unacceptable, every instinct that doesn’t support his projected vision of himself as mild-mannered and bookish and harmless (A dangerous Dark creature? Who, me?)— swallow it. If you ignore something long enough you’ll kill it through sheer force of will, right?

He knows he does that. He’s always done that, he’s always thought of himself as being a _private person_ , whatever the hell that means. Why does he do it, though?

But, he answers himself, that’s obvious— guilt. It’s always been guilt. Guilt about ruining his parent’s lives and lying to his teachers and endangering his friends and everything he’s ever done and everything he is, Remus is addicted to guilt. As long as he can remember he’s lived with guilt about being a werewolf and that’s taught him to feel guilty about _everything_ , so how can he ever forgive himself for the horrible sin of being human?

God, it’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid.

Remus barely notices himself moving, fighting his way through to the centre of the party. He isn’t watching where he’s going, and he’s just finished having the thought _what am I doing_ when there’s an explosion and a rain of yellow sparks. In the commotion Remus feels somebody topple backwards into him; he catches them on instinct before they hit the stone floor.

Now, people getting knocked off their feet by random explosions doesn’t strike Remus as a particularly surprising thing to happen at a party thrown by his best friends. He is surprised, though, when he looks down at the person he’s just rescued and sees Sirius.

He isn’t much of a ‘take it as a sign’ type of person, but it’s sort of hard not to with this one.

Sirius looks up, Remus’ arms looped under his, and his eyes go wide. “Moony! You’re h—” He looks down. “You’re in your pyjamas.”

“Yeah,” Remus says. He pushes Sirius fully to his feet, says, “C’mon,” and turns for the door.

Sirius says, “What?” sounding confused and a bit alarmed, but he’s following, so Remus keeps going. He marches through the door, waits for Sirius, and closes the door behind them.

“Hang— hang on,” Sirius says. “Where are we going?”

“James was on to something, Sirius,” Remus says. He takes him by the wrist and pulls him down the spiral staircase.

“What?”

“Remember our oath? Remember the exact wording of our oath?”

“It— it was—” He trips on a step in the dark stairwell. “Moony, where the fuck are we going?”

“No more guilt, I’ve decided,” Remus says. Then he starts to laugh. “Me, can you imagine? Me without guilt, what would that look like, do you think?”

They hit the landing that leads out onto the parapet tucked directly below the tower; Remus pulls them through the doorway and they pass from the dim stairwell into the moonlight. The sky opens up, huge and glittering, above them. From this spot on this beautifully clear spring night, high up in the air right above Hogwarts’ front doors, the expanse of the grounds in their sweeping entirety is laid out like a map.

“You remember how it went? I remember how it went,” he says, pushing Sirius further out onto the parapet. He feels giddy.

Sirius wheels on him. “Yes, I remember the bloody oath! What’s the matter with you?”

“No more secrets,” Remus says. He puts his hands on the back of Sirius’ neck, drags him in, and kisses him.

It’s a hard kiss, full of conviction, but not a long one. He pulls away from Sirius’ face with a horrifying _smack_ sound, meets his eyes, and sees that they’re huge with shock.

It hits Remus like a truck what he’s just done.

“Oh fuck,” he says.

A look goes over Sirius’ face. He flings his arms around Remus and kisses him so fiercely that he nearly knocks him over.

Remus doesn’t know what it would feel like to turn around, leap off the parapet edge, and free fall a hundred feet, but this is probably close.

Taking Remus with him, Sirius steps backward until his back hits stone and he pulls him in until they’re pressed close against the wall with his hands sliding up Remus’ back, warm through his thin t-shirt, and this is already more than Remus has ever done. He and Jeanette were thirteen, they were a timid pair, and right now there are tilting heads and parting mouths involved and this is so, so out of his range of experience but he can’t even panic about it, can’t be bothered to, because clumsy, inexpert, hungry kissing with Sirius is officially his favourite thing ever, why haven’t they done this before? He can’t hear himself think over the head rush, nothing gets through other than an endless loop of _finally finally finally_ —

A sensible voice cuts in. _You’re ruining everything_ , it says. It’s quiet, though, quiet enough that when Remus stops to pant, “Oh, this is bad,” he doesn’t pull back far.

Sirius takes the moment to exhale, “Shut up, don’t ruin it,” and dives back in again.

They pause at some point. Remus blinks, lightheaded. Light everything. He’d float away if he weren’t still pressed to Sirius, face tucked into the hot crook of his neck. The way he smells makes him ache inside, a concentrated dose of the familiar, and it’s a struggle getting a breath to stay down because every lungful of air he gulps in is saturated with it and only makes his head swim more, like the night in the forest when Remus inhaled secondhand potion fumes and lost himself.

Desperately trying to get a grip, he orients himself in space again: the cold breeze, the darkness, the distant shouts and laughter and music. There’s a party going on. Oh, right. He noses at the space behind Sirius’ ear, and when Remus looks up at him he sees that his eyes are fixed on the sky, unfocused.

Up to the kaleidoscope of stars, Sirius says, “Holy shit.”

Warm thrum under his skin. Remus hadn’t known he could love the _feel_ of somebody’s voice just as much as he loves the sound of it. Stupid with vertigo, heart turning itself inside out, he almost forgets to make sense of what Sirius is saying: “I’m gonna freak out. I can’t freak out now. Don’t let me freak out.”

“Don’t freak out.” He presses his mouth experimentally to the corner of Sirius’ jawbone where it hinges below his ear, delighting in how it makes Sirius’ breath go shaky.

“You’re no help.” His voice cracks. Remus feels it. It’s wonderful. “In fact, you are entirely the problem. You have caused this problem.”

“I’ll leave if you like.”

“You’re such a dick, why do I fancy you?”

Happiness pours over him like warm water, and he’s helpless to the smile that spills across his face. He hides it in Sirius’ neck, embarrassed, and his voice comes out small: “You fancy me?”

“Oh, now you’re just being annoying,” Sirius says, and pulls him back in.

It’s even longer this time before they stop again; breathing was starting to be problematic. They break apart but don’t go far, resting forehead-to-forehead, gasping in each other’s air. Together they wait to catch their breaths.

Remus strokes a thumb repeatedly over the space at Sirius’ temple where skin blends into hair. It’s insanely soft. He was using a handful of his long, wavy hair as leverage earlier and he hasn’t let go of it yet; after obsessively daydreaming about burying his hands in it for so long, he’s going to enjoy the opportunity. Sirius exhales against his lips, long and shaky. The warmth of him fills Remus’ lungs. It goes to his head and consumes him completely.

Remus says, very casually, “This is a terrible idea.”

He gets that grin at point-blank range, so close it’s blurry and doubled. “Our worst yet.”

Suddenly Remus is laughing, and it’s mostly air: joy bubbling up. He rests his hands around Sirius’ face because he needs to be touching him more, needs to run his fingers over his forehead and his cheekbones and look him in his lovely grey eyes as he says, “Imagine that, with the life we’ve lead!”

Neither of them pay much notice when the music on top of the tower stops suddenly. They have significant distraction. It gets their attention, though, when the stairwell begins to echo with the panicky sound of a lot of feet in a small space. They split apart, fling themselves to opposite sides of the parapet, run their forearms over their mouths, and it’s a very near thing when Peter appears in the doorway; Sirius hasn’t gotten his hair to lie flat yet.

Peter doesn’t appear to notice. “Thank God, there you are,” he says, face unusually white. He rattles off, “Mrs Norris sighting at the bottom of the stairs, t-minus ninety seconds until Filch shows up, we’ve got to _go_ ,” turns back to the noisy and crowded stairwell, and runs off.

Some minutes later Remus sprints down a dark corridor, flanked on either side by his best friends. They’re risking the longest run of detentions of their careers, but Remus doesn’t care. If he could, he’d whoop for joy.

James does it for him. It echoes off the walls: a dozen shouts of victory, following them as they go.

“Lads,” James declares, “We’re legends!”

 

***

 


	12. physical graffiti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ergh, I’m trying to think of a word that’s not ‘celibate’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual thanks for the comments and kudos! I've been having some writer's block lately (going back to rework stuff you wrote a year and a half ago is REAL weird), and it's always wonderful to see input from people who care. I'm on tumblr as macklesufficient, come talk to me about what you'd like to see more of in later chapters, or just to say hi. Thanks for reading!

 

“You didn’t hear a word of that, did you?”

Sirius stops staring vacantly into the swirling white of their crystal ball. He stays slumped over the table, face on his arms, when he peers up at James. “Mm?”

“I know you didn’t actually see anything interesting in there,” James says. “You’ve definitely got a concussion.”

Sitting up straight, Sirius tries his best to look interested. All week James has been hypothesizing about possible brain injuries he might have. “I heard you, you were talking about how you hexed Jorkins. What happened?”

“The nosy cow was spying on me, that’s what happened! Pete and I were coming back from Muggle Studies, minding our own business, and out of nowhere she comes up and starts threatening to dock us points!”

“Out of nowhere? She must be a pretty bad prefect.”

“We were tossing around a Fanged Frisbee at the time, but the point is I told her to sod off and she started taunting me!” James puts on a high voice. “‘ _Maybe next time I’ll report you and Florence for sneaking around behind the greenhouses!_ ’ Now I know she was pulling my leg because there’s no rule at all that says I can’t go, y’know, spend a bit of quality time with my girlfriend on the grounds whenever I like, is there? But she’d been spying on us! Must’ve followed us down there, hoping she could get some gossip! I couldn’t _not_ hex her, could I?”

“Bet McGonagall loved that explanation.”

“Minnie didn’t appreciate it, no,” James says. “But _two whole weeks_ of detention? It’s outrageous! Sandra’s gonna have my blood— we’ve got to beat Hufflepuff or the Cup is a wash.”

Sirius shrugs, slumps back onto the table, and pretends to contemplate the depths of the crystal ball some more. He very much doubts James’ two weeks of detention is truly punishment for making Bertha Jorkins grow shiny green scales all over her body.

When Filch came to raid James’ surprise party in the small hours of last Sunday, the mad exodus back to the dormitories was already underway; overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the miscreants running in different directions, no one was apprehended. It was the single most miraculous event in the student body’s collective memory. Everybody’s still talking about it a week and a half later, and even those who weren’t in attendance seem to have agreed that James Potter and his mates are heroes. James was right— they’re legends.

The problem is that even if there wasn’t evidence at the time to convict the four of them, there isn’t a soul in the whole school who doesn’t know which group was responsible for the spectacle on the Astronomy Tower that night. A few of the staff (and a good number of disgruntled prefects who weren’t invited) seem hell-bent lately on catching James, Sirius, Remus, or Peter in wrongdoing. Just yesterday, Professor McGonagall took thirty points from Gryffindor when Sirius cursed at his hedgehog for refusing to become a pincushion. James groaned loudly at the injustice. Sirius, on the other hand, couldn’t manage to care. He hasn’t been able to care about much, lately— not even James’ endless chatter about how wonderful his new girlfriend is.

The truth is, everything’s coming up pretty fucking rosy for Sirius.

On Monday afternoon he and Remus were walking out of the forest after Care of Magical Creatures with the rest of the class. Sirius was just noticing that they’d fallen to the back of the group when Remus grabbed him by the front of his robes, gave him a sharp tug sideways into the brush, and pulled him close.

But this wasn’t the parapet again. This time, Sirius was prepared. Remus had him by the shoulders and was steering him backwards, but Sirius’ reflexes were faster; he caught him by the arms, swung him around, and pushed him up against an enormous old tree, pinning his wrists to the gnarled trunk.

Sirius grinned down at him, victorious. “Gotcha,” he said. Remus didn’t wait for his wrists back before lurching forward and kissing him.

Since then has been, hands down, the most thrilling week of Sirius’ life. He’s spent all of it feeling either manically giddy or totally useless and floppy, as if his skeleton’s been replaced with hot steam and he might dissolve any second. Peter is confused, and James reckons he’s got a concussion.

Sirius knows he ought to feel some guilt, because he’d have to be pretty damn dense to miss the irony of the current situation. About a minute after he and James had their big heart-to-heart about trust, and Sirius decided that he had to come clean about the gay thing because James is his _brother_ for Merlin’s sake and he couldn’t keep that secret from him, Remus ran up and pulled him bodily into their biggest intra-group secret yet.

Saying something, that.

The Gryffindors have got Potions with the Slytherins next. On the way into the dungeon, Sirius firmly tells himself that when he sits down next to Remus he isn’t going to go all stupid and useless, because James is already suspicious. No, it won’t be a problem. What’s it matter how soft Remus’ hair looks today? Sirius can be a normal person for an hour.

He and Peter are already in the bustling classroom, sitting at their usual table toward the front. Remus looks up when he and James walk over, smiles at them in greeting. Sirius drops into the seat next to him and immediately becomes stupid and useless.

While James prattles at Peter about something, Sirius turns to Remus. “Hi,” he says.

His smile changes, subtly. “Hello.” It sounds like a private joke when he says it. “How’s your morning going?”

“Better now.”

A shocked noise falls out of Remus, halfway between a choke and a snort. “Jesus Christ, that was cheesy.”

“Wasn’t it just?” Sirius bites his lip in a desperate defense against the giggles building up in him. He’s got no idea what’s wrong with him, accepted it days ago: he’s just like this now. “Dunno, came into my head and I couldn’t resist.”

Remus is better at containing himself than Sirius is, but his face is still red with the effort of not laughing. He stares down at his hands, Sirius stares at him, and they both strain to keep from giggling at absolutely nothing. They’re just like this now.

“ _Moony_.”

Sirius sits up, thinks back, and realises that may have been the third or fourth time James said it. Remus turns. “Yes?”

James looks at Peter for backup. “They’re both bloody concussed.”

“Don’t know what you mean.” Remus busies himself with getting his cauldron all set up. “What?”

“Can’t even remember what I was going to say. You’ve both had brain damage lately.”

“Somebody go for the cheap joke, the suspense is killing me,” Remus says.

Before anyone can do it, though, Professor Slughorn starts the lesson. He goes to the chalkboard and announces, of all things: “Wit-Sharpening Potion, ladies and gentlemen! Useful little concoction— kits out, go on—”

“‘Useful’,” James says. “I’ll say. I’m force-feeding the both of you a cauldronful when I’m done.”

“As long as it isn’t the one I’ve brewed,” Remus says. “No use poisoning us. Have you got ginger root? I’m all out.”

Sirius and James work over one cauldron while Remus and Peter take the other, which is good, because he and Remus as a unit would probably make something hazardous. As it is, Sirius doesn’t notice that he’s dumped in the entire bottle of armadillo bile until he gets a column of nasty-smelling smoke to the face. Luckily, James doesn’t seem to be paying attention either: on the other side of the room Lily is in some playful debate with Professor Slughorn, so James has no choice but to complain about her.

“Thinks she’s soooo smart,” he mumbles. He grinds scarab beetles with a lot of force. “Look at me, I’m Lily Evans, and _eeeeeverybody’s_ got to know how _clever_ I am.”

Maybe it’s the fumes, but Sirius dares to say, “She is pretty clever, though.”

James looks at him with disgust. “Whose side are you on?”

He’s saved having to answer by Slughorn laughing loudly. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Miss Evans: you’re sharp enough to be a Slytherin!”

“Thank you, sir.”

James feigns gagging into his cauldron, and Slughorn gives her a paternal smile. “No slight against Gryffindor, of course. But, yes, you would fit right in!”

From across the dungeon, Sirius sees the smile slip from Lily’s face. “I don’t think the rest of your House would agree, sir,” she says. “At least two of them in this room have called me Mudblood.”

It’s the quietest he’s has ever heard a classroom in his life. He turns to James, who looks as stunned as Sirius feels, mouth slightly open.

At the front of the room, Professor Slughorn has frozen in place. It’s another long moment of shocked silence before he says in a weak voice, “Alright everybody, get going…can’t let that ginger stew too long…”

 

***

 

After Potions they split off for third period, like they do every Friday: James and Peter to Muggle Studies, Remus and Sirius to Care of Magical Creatures. This morning, however, finds the latter two skiving off in favour of the passageway behind the tapestry on the fourth floor.

It’s a while before they bother saying anything. Eventually, with his back pressed to the cold stone wall, Sirius gets a sentence in edgewise: “Kettleburn’s going to fail us, right?”

Remus draws back a little, but doesn’t release his fistful of Sirius’ hair. He seems to have a bit of a fixation on Sirius’ hair. “How d’you reckon?”

“We haven’t been to class since Monday.”

“We went on Wednesday.”

“Yeah, and split halfway through to go snog in the shed.”

“Made an effort, didn’t we?”

Sirius grins. “Sure did. We’re regular bloody scholars.”

“Can a magical creature fail Care of Magical Creatures?” Remus says, faux-philosophical. “I don’t think so. Reckon I should be exempt.”

“By that logic I should call this extra credit.”

Remus positively loses it at that, laughing even as he ducks his head to kiss Sirius’ neck. Everything’s funny lately. Skipping class, hiding out in odd corners, the fact that it’s raining or it’s Friday or there’s bacon at breakfast— everything’s a delightful in-joke, everything that happens is just for them. And why wouldn’t it be funny? It’s a hilarious situation they’re in. Two inexperienced idiots, working it out together. A lot of dumb stuff happens, especially with Sirius’ tendency to burst out laughing during sensory-overload situations. Like, for instance, right now.

Remus is already apologising before he’s come up completely from Sirius’ neck, but he breaks off mid ‘sorry’, bewildered. “What was that? Good sound or bad sound?”

The look on his face makes Sirius laugh in earnest. “Good sound.”

“Can never tell with you,” Remus mumbles. He still looks horrified at himself. “I didn’t mean to bite you.”

“Happy accident, then. Try it again.”

“You’re joking.”

He flicks his hair back from his neck. “Go for it.”

History will later laud this event as one of the more brilliant discoveries of Sirius’ life, up there with motorbikes and David Bowie. His mind goes a bit (with the muscular integrity of his knees, apparently, as he finds himself reliant on the wall against his back to stay upright) and he can be forgiven for not hearing the faint sound of somebody shifting the tapestry.

Remus does. He hardly moves, just lifts his face to look Sirius in the eyes. He tightens his grip on the front of Sirius’ robes before, just in time for light from the corridor to spill over them, he screws his face up and starts shouting at him.

“And I’ve told you for the last time, you foul, no-good, son of—!” 

“ _Boys!_ ”

With Remus still pinning Sirius to the wall, they turn around. It’s— of all bloody people—Slughorn.

“Now just what do you call this!” He’s all bluster and outrage. “ _Fighting!_ And when you ought to be in class! Mr Lupin, I’d expect better of you!”

Remus lets go of Sirius’ robes. There’s a look of deep, sincere penitence on his face. “You’re absolutely right, sir.”

“Ought to take fifty points from Gryffindor, I should! Explain yourselves!”

“You see, sir,” Remus begins, straight-faced and humble, “Sirius and I were having an argument. It was a petty thing, and I’m ashamed of how I let it escalate.”

“Rightly you should! This behaviour isn’t at all like you, Remus.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, sir, and I do agree, it isn’t like me at all. And especially unusual of Sirius and I— we just _couldn’t_ be closer friends.”

Sirius chokes. Neither of them notice.

“I can’t believe I let such a silly thing as a difference of opinion get in the way of our friendship,” Remus continues. “I’m of the belief, sir, that there isn’t anything more important than friendship, especially in these difficult times.”

A strange expression goes over Slughorn’s face. He frowns, thoughtful. “Yes. Yes, quite. I happen to agree with you. Yes…” For a moment he looks at them intently (Sirius becomes very aware of the state of his hair) and his expression softens. He almost looks sad. “The most important thing, I quite agree. You can’t let anything interfere with that, boys. These days…”

“We understand, of course, that we’ll be docked House points.” Remus ducks his head, contrite. “It’s less than we deserve, really.”

There’s a long pause. Sirius wonders if Remus is going to say anything, but he doesn’t; he lets Slughorn break the silence with, “No boys, I won’t be taking any points. You’re off the hook this one time, but only because I see that you, er, grasp the error of your ways. But I’ll be keeping my eye on you two, and any more fighting…”

“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Go straight to class and be grateful I’m not reporting you for that either,” he says, back to the blustering tone. “I expect that this sort of behavior stops here?”

“Yes sir, absolutely.”

He _hmmphs_. “Remember boys: friends are all we have in this world. Especially now…given the times…you remember that.”

Remus gives a warm smile, the picture of earnestness. “Thank you sir. We absolutely will.”

Slughorn watches them as they walk down the corridor. The second they turn the corner, Sirius rounds on Remus, gaping.

“That—you—”

“Thought that’d work,” Remus says casually. “Knew there was a bleeding heart in there somewhere.”

“You were fucking incredible.”

“You two aren’t the only ones capable of being crafty.”

Sirius hasn’t stopped staring at him. He’s probably going to walk into something. “I want to kiss you so badly right now that I’m going to die.”

Remus tries to bite back his smile but it lights him up anyway. “Medically improbable, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Where can we go?” Sirius asks, all business. This is urgent.

Remus, though, watches him with something that might be shock.

“What?”

“We, er.” He’s still staring at Sirius. “We may have a problem.”

“Huh?”

“Erm,” Remus replies. Sirius senses that he isn’t as composed as he looks. “We’re on the fourth floor, there’s a mirror up here somewhere— ah.” He brings them round the corner toward the full length mirror on the wall across from the library, waves Sirius over. “Have a look.”

Sirius does.

“Oh fuck,” he says.

He pushes his hair aside in the hope that maybe the shadow makes it look worse than it is but, nope, that is an enormous mottled bruise on his neck, stark and red-purple against his skin.

“Think it’s noticeable?” he says weakly.

Remus seems to be trying very hard to keep his cool. “This is bad. Yeah, this is bad.” He paces and mutters to himself. “God that was stupid, I’m so stupid. You’re— you’re _you_ , you bruise when somebody looks at you funny, let alone—” He stops in his tracks, stricken. “Oh my God.”

Sirius stayed calm while Remus did but now he’s officially panicking. “What? ‘Oh my God’ what?”

“You…you don’t think…it’s…it’s not permanent?”

“What? I bruise a lot, yeah, but-- Merlin, it’s not as though they stay there forever, what’s wrong with you?”

“No, no I mean…” Remus takes a shaky breath. “I _bit_ you. _I_ bit you.”

It takes Sirius a second. Then he bursts out laughing.

“This really isn’t funny!”

He laughs harder. “You didn’t break the skin, dickhead,” he gasps. “No, you haven’t given me a cursed hickey. Though that’d be just about the funniest thing ever, I shouldn’t even mind.”

“Shut up.”

“Your _face_ , oh my _God_ —”

“Would you shut up?” Remus snaps. “We’ve still got a problem! What’re we going to tell the others I did, beat you round the throat with a rounders bat?”

The gravity of the situation sets in again and Sirius thinks hard. He clicks his fingers. “Bad bite off a grindylow.”

Remus runs a hand over his face, mutters darkly to himself, “Guess I’m a grindylow now…” He gives a frustrated groan. “Look, nobody’s going to believe that that’s anything but a hickey, we’ve got to cover it up somehow.”

Sirius thinks. He doesn’t like the solution he comes up with, but it’s the only one he’s got.

“Lily,” he says, “we need Lily. She’ll be coming out of Muggle Studies with James and Peter in—” Sirius checks his watch, “—six minutes, let’s go.”

They book it across the castle and down three floors to the Muggle Studies classroom just in time for the bell to ring. Students pour out into the corridor, a mass exodus toward the Great Hall for lunch, while Sirius and Remus watch from behind the corner. Sirius slaps his hand over his neck, just to be safe. When James and Peter emerge, Remus stages a diversion with the Fanged Frisbee in his bag (he knows right well they’re banned, to think _he’s_ the teacher’s pet) and vanishes. Everybody’s distracted, so it’s a piece of cake darting out, grabbing Lily by the arm, and swinging her round behind the corner.

“What is the _matter_ with you?” she hisses. “Why’re you always leaping out and dragging me places?!”

“I’ve got a problem,” Sirius says, “and I need your help but you aren’t allowed to ask _any_ questions, dig?”

“No, I don’t _dig!_ You can’t just pull me into one of your stupid stunts and expect me to automatically—”

Sirius moves his hand from his neck. Her jaw drops. He leans in and growls, “No. Questions.”

Lily blinks owlishly for a moment, dumbstruck. Then she’s all business. “Alright, let’s go. We’ll take the trick staircase, that’ll get us up to the fourth floor without anybody catching us.”

Sirius follows at a clip, hand closed firmly over his neck. “And the three floors after that?”

“Pray,” she says.

 

***

 

“Where’s Black got to, then?”

Fork halfway to his mouth, Remus freezes. Why didn’t he think of an excuse? God, maybe he is concussed. “Er. Hospital wing. Clotting troubles.”

James _hmm_ s sympathetically around a mouthful of roll. “Haemophilia’s a bitch.”

“What happened?” Peter asks.

“Sorry?”

“What cut him?”

“Oh,” Remus says. “Bad bite off a grindylow. Pass the chicken, James.”

 

***

 

“You’ve got to watch so you can do this yourself later,” Lily says. “I’ll put an Impervius Charm on it and that’ll get you a few days, a week maybe, but that’s it.” She’s spread out an array of bottles, tubes, and jars across the floor in front of the mirror in the boy’s dormitory. Tesla sniffs at them, curious. “How long’s it take for bruises to heal, with your condition?”

He waves his wand; something clicks to life on the magicked turntable. “Long time.”

“Watch closely, then.” Lily sits them down in front of the mirror and unscrews the first tube, squeezing some of the substance onto the back of her hand. “Hope this works. You’re paler than me, which I didn’t think was possible.”

“Fuck off.” He moves his hair and lets her dab the stuff onto his neck. It’s quiet for a bit.

It doesn’t last long. “You know,” she muses, “it’s hardly fair of you to ask for my help with something like this and expect me to not have questions.”

“You can have all the questions you like, you just aren’t allowed to ask them.”

“If I guess who it is will you tell me if I’m right?”

“No.”

She ignores him. “Is it Dirk Cresswell?”

He’s taken aback enough that he answers. “No, why was he your first guess?”

“I don’t know, there’s just something about him that’s a bit…”

“Poof-y?”

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that, but.”

“Everybody thinks I’m some great lady’s man. Can’t trust your instincts, can you?”

“Fair. What about his friends— Casey? Ned? Davey?”

“Did you just ask me if I’m snogging your boyfriend?”

She pauses blotting delicately at his neck with a tiny sponge to roll her eyes. “Gudgeon? God no, I ended that. Quite the idiot, that one. You will notice, however, that I didn’t mention Marco.”

“Hang on, you’re with Whitby now?” Sirius can’t keep track of his friends all dating each other. “Are you going through the Quidditch team?”

She waves him off with the sponge-free hand. “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you. Is it somebody not in Gryffindor? Samir? I thought he was with Carol but you never know. Roger? Marvin? Or that Ravenclaw, what’s his name— Rodney?”

“You think the best I could do is Stebbins? Now you’re just being insulting.”

“So is he or isn’t he a Gryffindor?”

“No.”

“He’s not a Gryffindor?”

“No.”

“He is a Gryffindor?”

“No.”

But Lily, devil woman that she is, detects something in his face and bursts out with, “Aha! He _is_ a Gryffindor! Geez, who haven’t I said yet? What about that fourth year, the one who looks like Michael Crawford if Michael Crawford had spots?”

“Would you leave it?” he snaps. “You’re not gonna guess anyway.”

That only seems to inspire her. “Who’s in Gryffindor who I would never guess?” She stops to think, having temporarily abandoned the makeup. “Well, it’s not any of your gang, because Potter is Potter—”

“Ew,” Sirius offers.

“And Peter’s sweet, but—”

“Likewise ew.”

“And Remus, he’s…”

Sirius looks down where he can’t see her expression in the mirror, studies his nail varnish, and says nothing.

It’s a second before he hears her voice: “Oh my God.”

He picks at his black thumbnail, shrugs. “Told you not to ask.”

“I…wow,” she says. “Just… _wow_. He seems so—”

“Straight?”

“No, I— well yes, I had assumed that as well, but what I was going to say was that he seems so _sensible_.”

He looks up, smirking. “Should’ve had better taste, right?”

“You know what I mean! Remus, he’s got this quality about him that’s— that’s—” She scrunches her nose. “Ergh, I’m trying to think of a word that’s not ‘celibate’.” Sirius snorts and she goes on: “Bookish. Polite. Unassuming.”

“Funny how many people he’s tricked into believing that.”

“It’s just that he doesn’t seem the type, does he? I can’t imagine him skiving off to hang out someplace and gnaw on your neck.”

Sirius can’t help his smile from widening. It’s embarrassing how even talking about Remus can make him feel all swoony. It’s not _news_ to him that he’s got it bad, but, well. “Let’s just say he’s got hidden depths.”

Lily raises her eyebrows. “I’ll say.” She picks up the sponge again and goes back to work, shaking her head. “Remus Lupin. Who’d’ve thought.”

“I do hope you’re not really being this holier-than-thou right now, Miss People-Really-Do-Mess-Around-Under-The-Quidditch-Stands-I-Know-From-Experience.”

“Just because I’m not a nun doesn’t mean I can’t be surprised when Remus isn’t either.”

“You two are a lot alike,” Sirius realises. “You’ve got everybody thinking you’re goody two-shoes prefects, but really you’re troublemakers with bad attitudes like me.”

“Ex _cuse_ you, my attitude’s lovely. I’m a nice person who doesn’t hex people in the corridors because she’s bored, you and Potter ought to give it a try.”

“You talked back to Slughorn earlier.”

In the mirror he sees her expression darken. “That was different. That was really different.”

“Ah, but was it really?”

He was joking, but there’s nothing playful at all in Lily’s tone when she answers. “Yes.”

“Oh.”

She pauses from patting powder onto his neck, looks at nothing. Then she says, “Do you read the _Prophet?_ ”

The subject change is confusing. “Er. No, not really. Fluff and garbage ninety percent of the time, isn’t it?”

“Not always. Things get through sometimes,” she says. “People going missing— they report those now. The last one was a journalist. They didn’t say so in the article, but he was.”

“How do you know he was, then? If it wasn’t in the article?”

Lily doesn’t answer. “There’s scary stuff going on. You know, they’re going to make a Muggle-born registry. This summer. They’re going to send out a survey to everybody and say it’s a census, but it’ll be a registry.”

Sirius is completely lost. “Wh— that was in the _Prophet?_ ”

“No, no of course it wasn’t, but that’s what’s going to happen.”

“You’re guessing this?”

“Not guessing at all, I know it will.”

“How on earth could you know that?”

“I—” Her eyes dart away in the mirror. “I hear from— I have places I hear from, alright?”

“You sound extremely dodgy right now. ‘Places’?”

“None of your business. Never mind.” She picks up her wand, points it at his neck, mumbles something that makes his skin go prickly and cold for a moment. “There. Tell Remus to use a bit less teeth next time.”

“Aw, must I?”

She snorts and gives him a shove. “Hurry up, I’m starving.”

 

***

 

“All feels rather silly at this point, doesn’t it?” says James the next afternoon in Transfiguration, poking the guinea pig on his desk (which was recently a guinea fowl) with his wand. “I mean, birds to rodents is nothing compared to what we’ve got going.”

“Easy for you to say,” Peter says. His guinea fowl is furrier than it was half an hour ago, but that’s about it.

Remus isn’t faring a whole lot better; the guinea pig in front of him is covered entirely in sleek black feathers. “I never did get the reading done."

“You were in the library for forever, though,” Peter says. Maybe Peter’s imagining it, but he thinks Remus has been funny lately.

On Remus’ other side Sirius is letting his guinea pig chew on his sleeve. He raises his eyebrows. “I suppose we were. Weren’t we, Moony?”

Remus goes back to his notes for the dozenth time. “Yeah, there wasn’t anything in there on it. Why’s mine still got feathers?”

James shrugs. Then he leans in to Peter and says in an undertone, “Hey— how are you doing on your last incantation?”

Immediately Peter’s stomach sinks. “Erm. Not great.” He prods listlessly at the furry fowl on his desk. “If I can’t manage to turn this bird into a rodent I’ve no idea how I’ll ever do it to _myself_.”

Sirius waves a hand. “None of that, Mister Bigger-Than-A-Mouse. We’ll help you out.”

“Mister _what?_ ” says James.

“I gave us codenames when we were planning your party and I’ve decided I like them,” Sirius explains. “Granted, Pete’s is just a first draft.”

“I’ll say,” James says with a snort. “What’re the rest of ours, then?”

“You’re Mister Prongs-y Things, and I’m Mister Pad Feet.”

“Those’re all terrible.”

Sirius throws his hands up, distressing his guinea pig. “You’ve any better ideas?”

“They’re too long, you plonker. The whole point of a nickname is that it’s short,” James says patiently. “That’s why ‘Moony’ is so good. It’s simple.”

“I’ve come to peace with it,” Remus sighs.

James points with his wand at Sirius. “Padfoot,” he says. Then he points at himself. “Prongs.” He spreads his hands. “Bam.”

Sirius makes a _not bad_ sort of face. “I like the alliteration.”

“How do you even know that word?” Remus asks.

“Crossword last week.”

“Hey, hang on a minute,” Peter interjects. He’s got to put his foot down on this one. “I can’t stay Mister Bigger-Than-A-Mouse. I’m already the least cool animal, I shouldn’t get the dumbest name too.”

Putting down his wand, James makes a performance of looking thoughtful. “I’ll think about it. For now, though, I think we ought to focus on getting the spell done.”

Peter thinks this is rather easy for somebody who hasn’t been nicknamed ‘Mister Bigger-Than-A-Mouse’ to say, but lets it go in favour of the bigger problem on his mind. “I’m really worried.” He points, dejected, at his guinea fowl. “How am _I_ going to pull it off?”

“Like Mister Padfoot said,” James says, enjoying his brilliant nickname, “we’ll keep helping you. You think we’re gonna ditch you at this last stage? Come off it.”

“No, it’s just…” he begins, then trails off. Peter doesn’t know how to explain to his genius friends that all the help in the world won’t make him anything but totally pants at Transfiguration. “Alright.”

“’Atta boy. Now, we’ve got to do the spells on five consecutive new moons, and I had been hoping that the first one could be this month’s—”

“Are you mad?” Sirius exclaims. From the seat in front of him Rodney Stebbins gives him a look. “That’s in three days, Potter.”

“I know, I know,” James says, and Peter believes him— all four in their group have got rather abnormally thorough knowledges of the lunar calendar. “That plan’s no good. I’m just saying, I think we can get a move on. And,” he says as an afterthought, “I’ll think of a better nickname for Pettigrew in the meantime. What d’you think, Moony?”

Remus, who has been staring fixedly at his notes since the shift in subject, doesn’t look up. “Right on,” he says stiffly.

The next morning, Peter’s woken up by the hangings on his bed flying open and James shouting, “Rise and shine, Mister Wormtail!” and he doesn’t protest. It’s not the greatest of nicknames, sure. It was picked out just for him, though, so he figures he could like it fine.

It sticks for a very long time.

 

***

 

Fourth year rolls to a close beautifully. Gryffindor massacres Ravenclaw and wins the Cup for the third year in a row. That’s mostly thanks to several marvelous scores on James’ part and a truly spectacular performance by his gorgeous and brilliant Seeker girlfriend, who actually lets him kiss her right there on the pitch in front of everybody and it’s just about the coolest thing that’s ever happened to him.

As if that weren’t victory enough, on the last afternoon of term they finally help Peter finish up his incantation. The Animagus spell is good to go. All they’ve got left is to do the ritual on five consecutive new moons, and James reckons they ought to get the show on the road by having everybody do it separately over the summer; that way they’ll be done by November.

Remus won’t have it, though.

“It’s dangerous enough to do it with all of us looking out for each other,” he says, choosing a card. They haven’t had much time to play lately— the score is only eight hundred and forty-nine to seven hundred and seventy-three— but they’re getting a quick hand in before packing.  “We’ll wait to start it until we’re all back together.”

“But that’s two whole months wasted!” Sirius protests.

“Yeah, at that rate we won’t be done until _January_.”

“Then we’ll be done in January,” Remus says. A card explodes in his face, and James reckons it’s rightly deserved.

Even with the setback, though, he’s feeling pretty great when they pull into King’s Cross. Sirius is going on holiday with James’ family again; they’re going to Italy, which would be wicked by itself. But it’s also great because this summer Sirius is coming with them straight away and it’ll be a whole month before he has to go back to his shitty parents. Usually at this point off the train Sirius looks pretty miserable, but there’s a big, relieved smile on his face when James’ mum and dad both hug him hello. James thinks it’s a great change.

 

***

 

“What about you, Sirius?” Mum asks. “Any special girl?”

James accidentally bites his tongue while he’s chewing his bruschetta, but Sirius stays totally cool. He smiles. “Afraid not. Haven’t gotten round to it.”

It’s surprising it’s taken this long for it to come up, really. Mum and Dad have asked James a million questions about Florence over the past two weeks; you’d think they’d be distracted by all the far out stuff they’re seeing as the four of them hop from city to city but no, they’d rather ask about his girlfriend’s favourite school subjects. They’re in Rome now, the last leg of their trip before they go back to Cornwall, and it occurs to James that he ought to be thankful that they haven’t been grilling Sirius too. James forgets about the gay thing a lot— it hasn’t come up again since his birthday party— and it’s not until times like now that he fully appreciates how often Sirius has got to lie. They’re small lies, sure, but it must get annoying after a while.

“You boys are young, there’s no rush,” Dad says, waving the hand that doesn’t have his wine glass in it. “They grow faster than they used to, don’t they?” he says to Mum. “Faster than in our day. Why, I don’t think I took a girl out until I was eighteen!”

“I think that says more about you than your ‘day’, Dad.”

Sirius and Mum laugh and Dad makes a weak sound of protest. “I mean that kids were kids longer in our day,” he says. “Poorami, back me up.”

Mum leans back in her chair, smiling. “I don’t know. Young people are more political than I remember. But I do believe that teenagers have always dated each other, even back in _our day_.” She reaches over the table to pat Dad’s hand. “I think you were just unpopular, dear.”

James and Sirius laugh. They’re all having dinner on the patio of a little Roman bistro and there’s been a steady stream of passersby all the while. Right now, though, one of them seems to have caught Dad’s attention.

Dad sits up, eyes brightening behind his glasses. “Isaac?” he calls. He half-stands from his chair, looking over James’ shoulder, then smiles broadly as he gets up completely. “I don’t believe it!”

James turns around. On the sidewalk just past their table is a thin, greying man about his parent’s age, laughing in astonishment as Dad hurries over to him and gives him a firm handshake. “Just the maddest thing!” the man says jovially. “Over fifteen years it’s been, and I run into Warren Potter in the streets of Rome! What’re the chances, eh?”

“It’s a funny old world, isn’t it?” Dad laughs, stepping aside as Mum walks over, greeting the man and shaking his hand. “And you remember Poorami—”

“Of course, of course—”

Sirius leans in to James’ side and whispers what they’re both thinking: “Who’s that?”

James shrugs. Then he sees the man spot them and ask, “These your boys?”

“Sure are,” says Dad. “The one with glasses, anyway.”

“We borrow the other one,” Mum jokes. Then she shoots James and Sirius her classic _I taught you better manners than this_ look and says, “Boys, come say hello to Mr Peakes.”

James and Sirius glance at each other, telepathically agreeing that this had better not last long. They walk over and Mr Peakes shakes their hands, muttering _nice to meet you_ s while Dad introduces them.

“My son James— and his best friend, Sirius Black.”

Mr Peakes lets go of Sirius’ hand rather quickly, an odd look crossing his face. James sees Sirius start to go red beside him.

Mum rescues the situation with her usual grace. “Sirius finds that he and his family don’t often see eye to eye,” she says lightly. “He spends most of his holidays with us.”

“Ah,” says Mr Peakes. “I quite understand.” Still, James thinks he looks a bit nervous as he accepts Mum and Dad’s insistent invitation to join them.

It turns out to be a pretty boring meal; Mr Peakes and Dad, it’s explained, used to be business partners way back in the day, before Mr Peakes left to work in some hideously dull-sounding accounting job at the Ministry. James tunes out while they reminisce, pausing occasionally to share miserably bored looks with Sirius while nobody’s looking. They’re well into the entrée by the time anything interesting comes up in conversation. It’s not exactly pleasant, though.

“And we simply love Rome, of course,” Mum is saying. “The biggest magical population in Europe! Such an engaging history.”

Mr Peakes nods. “I confess that’s what brought Penelope and I here as well. The English hide their magic so keenly, but here you’d think the Statute of Secrecy never happened at all! It’s a delightful place for our sort.”

“How long are you two here, Isaac?” Dad asks, cutting his ravioli. “Long holiday?”

Suddenly Mr Peakes looks a bit uncomfortable. “Ah, haven’t I mentioned? Penelope and I— we relocated here about a year ago now.”

“Merlin’s beard! You didn’t mention that!” Dad laughs. “That’s quite a move! Did the Ministry send you all the way out here?”

“Well, ah,” he says. He’s definitely uncomfortable now. “In a sense, I suppose.” He laughs dryly, then clears his throat and says, “You see, Warren, I’m Muggle-born.”

There’s a quick moment of particularly dense quiet, filled by the sounds of the street and the bistro but still managing to ring in all of their ears. Then Dad says, in a forcibly casual voice, “Oh, I’d forgotten. You and Penelope both, if memory serves?”

“Yes, that’s right. We, ah.” He takes a sip of wine, smiles. “We figured it was best.”

The mood has changed so drastically in the past thirty seconds it feels as though a dark cloud has rolled in over their table. James glances over at Sirius, who looks as nervous as he himself feels.

“Well…well gee, Isaac, I’d no idea it was so bad.”

“Oh, we’re not the only ones. Quite a lot of people are. Er.” He pauses and says, gingerly, “Getting out while they can.” When no one responds, he keeps going. “I don’t know if you two know this, but there’s been a push for a…for some sort of monitoring of blood status in Britain.”

“Like a registry?” Sirius says.

They all turn to look at him, surprised. After a moment Mr Peakes says, “Well…well, yes.”

No one speaks for a few seconds.

Finally, Mum says, “It’s shameful. You’d think the Ministry would have better priorities. With the _state_ of things…” She shakes her head. “Some mornings I can’t bring myself to finish the paper. Such dreadful, dreadful things.”

“I’m afraid that’s only the tip of the iceberg,” Mr Peakes says sadly. “You two don’t hear what’s said behind closed doors at the Ministry. Though you might start to soon— it’s beginning to creep out from behind those closed doors, or so I’ve heard.”

Dad frowns, furrowing his brow. “How d’you mean?”

Mr Peakes pauses from tearing apart a piece of bread and takes a deep breath. “People are frustrated, I suppose that’s the root of it. You know, the Muggles in England are in a similar spot that you lot are. Economically, I mean. Employment’s miserable with them too. All sorts of problems. Strikes and things.” He shakes his head. “I suppose it’s just the right sort of environment for all this chaos. Half of the disappearances don’t get reported as it is. One wonders what else is being covered up, and by whom.”

“These radicals, and that leader of theirs,” Mum says, “they’re striking while the iron is hot, aren’t they? While everything’s in enough disarray for them to get away with it?”

Mr Peakes nods grimly. “The long and the short of it, yes. Or at least that’s how it looked from the inside at the Ministry. I haven’t been in England for over a year, I don’t know how things are looking these days.”

“Worse,” Sirius says. There’s a hard, set look on his face. “It keeps getting worse and nobody’s doing a damn thing to stop it.”

Mr Peakes stares at him for a moment, clearly taken aback. Finally, his eyes still on Sirius, he says, “You really weren’t exaggerating, were you, Poorami?”

“No, quite not,” Mum says briskly. “Wine, Isaac?”

 

***

 

Remus and his mother are going to stay with his grandfather, comfortably retired on the coast in Devon, for a few weeks before the start of term, so there ends up being only a tiny window in which Sirius and Remus are in London at the same time. Sirius only comes over once, right after getting back from his holiday with the Potters.

While Mum sits in the kitchen with a student (she tutors during the school holidays but still they always have less money in the summer) Remus leads Sirius down the flat’s one narrow corridor to his room. That’s hardly out of the ordinary; the two of them have spent countless summer days over the years hanging out in his tiny bedroom doing nothing, being companionably bored. This time, though, Remus almost feels nervous.

Sirius flops across the bed with a loud squeaking of springs, stretching languidly. He sees Remus closing the door and smirks. “Look at that, you’re even allowed to shut the door. Nice she doesn’t know you’re bent.”

The door clicks closed and Remus leans back on it, biting his lip against the smile threatening the corners of his mouth. “Very funny.”

“You know,” Sirius muses as he kicks his legs out over the bedspread, “I’ve never asked. How bent are you, exactly?”

Remus raises his eyebrows. “Quite,” he says mildly.

“Right,” says Sirius, nodding. “I’m not a— er— trial run, then?”

Remus rolls his eyes. “I was plenty gay before I snogged you, trust me.”

“I didn’t even know you _could_ like both until a couple months ago, Lily had to tell me.”

“Lily?”

“Yeah. Even with James’ bullshit we’ve still managed to be friends. A really weird friendship, but, well.” He tosses some hair back from his face with a jerk of his head. “She’s known I’m bent as a broken wand since we were twelve. I told her second year.”

That throws Remus off a bit. “But you didn’t tell any of us.”

Sirius quirks one dark eyebrow. “Neither did you.”

Remus opens his mouth then shuts it again. True, his own bisexuality was something that until recently he kept hidden away in the far back of his mind; he dismissed it as irrelevant, assured himself he need never act on it, ignored it. But even if he had been capable of accepting its reality before, he can’t imagine for a second ever telling a soul. He has no intention of telling anyone even now that he’s promised himself to stop feeling guilty about it, even now that he is very much…well. Acting on it.

“Touché,” he says. He goes to sit on the end of his bed at Sirius’ feet, propping himself up against the wall and folding his knees to his chest. “So, how was Italy?”

“It was great, yeah. I tried to push James in the Trevi Fountain but Mr Potter caught me.” The smile fades from his face. “Something weird happened while we were in Rome. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

“What?”

There’s an odd, pensive look on Sirius’ face. He picks at his black nail varnish, eyebrows drawn together. “We ran into this old friend of his parents’, he used to work for the Ministry but he lives in Rome now— he left last year because he and his wife are Muggle-born. They left the country. I…” He looks up, frowning. “I think it’s worse than they’re telling us, what’s been going on.”

“What do you mean, ‘going on’?”

“You haven’t forgotten that night.”

No, he hasn’t. “I try not to think about it,” Remus says.

Sirius leans forward, draping his arms over his knees. “Biggest bloody coincidence we were down in that common room at all, but ever since it happened I see it everywhere. I can’t tell if it’s because I’m paying attention now or because things actually are getting worse.”

“Worse how?”

Sirius looks at him for a second. “Did you get a census in the mail?”

“Yeah, why?”

He nods to himself. “Thought you might’ve, Pete did too.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. Nor did James.”

That surprises Remus. “Really?”

“Nope. It had questions about your blood status, right?”

“Yeah,” Remus recalls. “Boxes to tick: ‘mother of magical birth’, ‘father of magical birth’, ‘paternal grandmother of’, etcetera etcetera.”

“James and I didn’t get it,” Sirius says. “What do you make of that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not anything. Do _you_ make anything of it?”

“Lily said last term that they’d have everybody do a census and then use it as a Muggle-born registry.”

“She— _what?_ What on earth made her say that?”

“I don’t know, but seems like she’s right, doesn’t it?”

A chill falls over Remus. He tilts his head, thinking. “It…maybe. Maybe not. We can’t know for sure, can we?”

“James and I are the only ones who didn’t get the bloody thing!” Sirius argues. “You can’t say that’s not suspicious!”

“It’s suspicious, yes, but it’s anecdotal. We can’t be certain.”

Sirius sighs noisily, ruffling some hair. “You’re so good at those sensible, mature answers that are so sensible and mature that they don’t actually answer anything.”

“Sorry.”

“Lily knows something, though,” Sirius says, as if to himself. “This was back in April, and she said they would do a census. How’d she know that?”

Remus has got to admit that that’s odd. “Did you ask her?”

“She wouldn’t tell me, just got all dodgy about how she _has her ways_ , or whatever. Dunno how she knew.” Sirius sighs again, falling forward over his arms. “Y’know who I wish I could talk to about all of this? Andromeda. She was the one who taught me how our whole family was full of shit. Even when I was little we _got_ each other, you know?” His eyes flick away from Remus’, taking sudden interest in a blank stretch of wall. “Without her I’d probably be just as bad as the rest of them.”

Remus has the instinct to grab his hand, hanging there over his knee, but he suppresses it. Instead he says in a carefully casual voice, “Do you really think so?”

“If nobody had told me how fucked up it all was, how would I know any different? I heard that shit all the time, around the dinner table every night. If nobody’d ever pointed out to me that it was wrong I’d have no reason to notice, would I?”

“I think you would,” Remus says, firmly. He needs Sirius to understand this. It’s important. “You accepted me when you knew I was a werewolf. Precious few would’ve done that,” he says. “That’s more than understanding that the concept of blood purity is ridiculous— that’s _remarkable_.”

Remus doesn’t want to say it out loud, but he wonders whether even open-minded, rebel heroine Andromeda would want to be in the same room with him for long. How many people in their world would, once they knew what he was? It was nothing short of miraculous that he found three. Remus knows that his friends forget (or maybe just take for granted) how special they are, but he doesn’t.

And _Sirius_. Sirius especially— Sirius, of all people, should want nothing at all to do with him. But here he is.

“That’s…well,” Remus says. “Revolutionary.”

He glances up at Sirius and finds him looking at him again; he’s sitting right in the path of the sunlight that’s slanting in through the window. It hits him sideways through his eyes, slicing light through the pale grey irises until they glow, and falls over the smooth planes of his face and God he’s lovely, he’s so overwhelmingly gorgeous, what could he possibly be doing with Remus? A fear that’s become familiar wells up in him again.

Surely, a voice in his mind has taken to whispering, Remus is the only one who’s really engaged in this (whatever the hell _this_ is, this arrangement they’ve got), besotted as he is, and for Sirius he’s just a willing participant, a test run, a way to pass the time. Sirius does, after all, have exceptionally few options. Who knows what other boy will reveal himself to swing this way? He’d be somebody cooler and fitter and smarter and less of a cowardly pushover, no doubt, another brave and charming genius like Sirius himself. And he’d be fully human. That’s a given.

Thankfully Remus doesn’t have more than a second after he looks up for the fear to bite at him. Sirius reaches for him, sliding a hand behind his neck and tugging him in and of course Remus goes willingly, closes his eyes and feels all the tension gust out of him like an exhale as soon as Sirius kisses him, feels his shoulders drop, his limbs go to jelly. It’s been a month since he’s had this, and it’s worrying how much he missed it. He was irritable and antsy and Mum even accused him of _sulking_ , of all the nerve. To be honest, he’s been ready to crawl out of his skin for weeks. It’s incredibly embarrassing.

He suspects, though (and it sends a thousand volts through him, this suspicion), that Sirius might have been having the same experience. It seems like it, anyway, when he keeps yanking at Remus’ shoulders even though Remus has twisted his torso around as far as it will go and is compensating for the funny angle as best he can but it’s not good enough for Sirius apparently, because he keeps pulling him. Finally, if only to save his poor shoulders from dislocation, he turns over until he’s facing Sirius.

But that only leaves them with more problems because now Sirius’ legs folded in front of him are in the way, so the next sensible thing to do, logistically speaking, is to nudge his knees apart and crawl between them, and Sirius lets his back drop to the mattress and tugs Remus down with him and holy hell, he’s kissing Sirius while completely on top of him.

If Sirius is freaking out as much as Remus is he doesn’t show it, just hitches his leg up to give him space and settles it against Remus’ side, dragging his hands over his back and breathing heavily into his mouth. Like watching himself in a dream, Remus feels his hand travel down the length of Sirius’ side, over his hip, up his leg until it finds the crook under his knee and holds him there; Sirius gives a low, blissful hum that makes Remus kiss him harder.

Some long black hair gets caught between their faces. They laugh and part and Remus pushes it out of the way, smoothing it back until it spills like ink over the white pillowcase. For a moment he rests his free hand on Sirius’ forehead, looks down into his eyes. It’s the space of a breath or two by the time he notices how dark those eyes have gone, how little iris is left; some self control he didn’t know he was still hanging onto vanishes completely and he goes back in, pressing him closer, holding him tighter. Sirius makes a needy sound at the back of his throat and Remus gets lost for a bit. More than a bit. A while.

When he breaks away and lurches upright it’s with a gasp like coming up from too long underwater. The lightheadedness and faint ringing in his ears are also very much in keeping with the theme. “I think,” he manages, gulping down air, “that we ought to cool it a bit.”

Sirius moves his arms as if to push himself up but doesn’t quite achieve it, flushed and disheveled with his hair all over the place. He hasn’t blinked. “Why?” he pants. A second later he visibly shakes himself. “I mean— that’s not what I meant. I mean…I didn’t do anything stupid, did I? You were enjoying yourself, right?”

Digging the heels of his hands under his eyes, Remus groans. “I can’t believe you just asked me that. I was lying on top of you, I should think that was patently obvious.”

Sirius bursts out laughing. Remus could kill him.

It’s not as if he’s never considered sex; he’s fifteen, for God’s sake. He’s been regularly snogging the object of his infatuation (who, conveniently, is stupidly beautiful and capable of turning Remus’ brain to soup with a look) for a few months now, it’s a logical progression of events. The only problem is that the introduction of the actual prospect is fucking terrifying.

He’s heard plenty from his peers about what boys get up to with girls (he is, again, fifteen) but Sirius is not a girl and Remus knows very little about what he’s meant to do here. He imagines some of it is, as it were, transferable, but regardless. Anatomical differences must be taken into account.

But it goes deeper than that, he knows it does. Even if he had any idea of how things worked between boys, it wouldn’t change the fundamental distrust in his own body Remus has always had. Had since he was five years old, anyway. It’s complicated. It’s not that he’s ashamed of it, not really; those three have seen his scars for years now, he stopped bothering to cover them up after they found out. But Remus knows what his body does, has one primary association with his body, can’t uncouple it from the pain and fear and blood, the smell of dittany and sterile bandages. His body is not something _sexy_ to him, God no— it’s something to be dealt with, managed, covered up with long sleeves and checked out of when the agony is too much. He doesn’t think it could ever be anything else.

Then he hears Sirius say, “You don’t mean stop entirely? For good?”

“No!” falls out of his mouth with unnecessary urgency, Sirius grins smugly, and Remus wants to die of embarrassment all over again. “Not at all. I only mean that I think we ought to, y’know…keep it above the belt, as it were.”

Sirius gives a short laugh and pushes himself up. Eyes intent on Remus’ face, he says in that low, intimate voice he _knows_ does things to Remus’ insides, “Do you know, Moony, that you say ‘as it were’ when you’re nervous?” He grins wolfishly. “I don’t make you _nervous_ , surely?”

He doesn’t manage an answer to that. Sirius laughs again and says, “You should see yourself, you’re _so_ red, it’s adorable.” Then his sharp grin falls into a gentler smile. “Of course we can do that. It’s whatever you like, so chill out. Now,” he says, shifting his weight onto his knees. He tosses his arms loosely over Remus’ shoulders before going in for his neck. Remus feels his smile against his throat and the vibration of, “This is above your belt, isn’t it?”

Relief flooding through him, Remus laughs and tips his chin back obligingly. A few moments later there’s a tapping sound that ordinarily would have made him jump, but Sirius is brushing kisses down the line of a tendon in his neck and it takes a second to register. It’s coming from the window.

“That’ll be your letter, I got mine this morning.” Mouthing at his pulse point, Sirius murmurs, “Ignore it.”

“Can’t,” Remus breathes, dragging the word unwillingly from his mouth. He really, really doesn’t want to move. “It’ll go round to the kitchen window.”

Sirius keeps nuzzling under his jaw. “So.”

“So my mum is in there tutoring a Muggle child, who would be quite alarmed by an owl delivering the post.”

Grumbling wordlessly, Sirius pulls away. “Fine.” He flops backwards, bouncing as the bedsprings creak. “Be quick about it, will you?”

Remus rolls his eyes and gets to his feet. There’s a tawny owl clicking one of its talons against the glass. When he pushes the window open it hops onto the sill, lets the thick parchment envelope drop from its beak and onto the desk, and flies off again. He opens the envelope and unfolds the letter more out of habit than anything; he could probably recite it from memory by now.

“Hey, I got invited to some school called Hogwarts,” he deadpans.

“Sounds ghastly,” Sirius drawls, now lying on his stomach with one arm dangling lazily off the side of the bed. “Probably full of werewolves and homosexuals.”

Sirius can’t see him but Remus rolls his eyes again anyway. He unfolds the second piece of parchment, saying, “Think the book list’s longer than usual,” to nobody in particular. But then he notices that the envelope’s still rather heavy, looks in it again, and pulls out a silver badge.

“Oh, fuck me,” he mutters.

“What’re you reading it all for? It says the same stupid thing every year.”

“Bit different this time,” Remus says, and his voice goes pitchy like it hasn’t since second year.

“How d’you mean?”

Determined to get it over with, he turns around and holds up the badge. “Kill me, please.”

It’s a bit before Sirius stops laughing. Remus stands and waits it out.

Finally Sirius, sitting upright again, collects himself enough to gasp, “You’re a _prefect_ , they made _you_ a _prefect!_ ”

“Well, I suppose they didn’t have many options!” Remus argues. He’s feeling rather defensive. “It’s mostly girls in Gryffindor in our year, so the four of us are the only choices they’ve got for the boy one, aren’t we?

That just makes Sirius start laughing again. “Then they should’ve picked Carlos, because you have gotten up to way too much shit to be a prefect.”

“Carlos is a girl,” Remus corrects, then realises that the gender of a puffskein is not the part of that statement he should be debating. “I’ve only ‘gotten up to too much shit’ because you lot have dragged me along!”

Pushing himself up to sitting on the edge of the bed, Sirius crosses his arms and levels Remus a stern look. There’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “Do you mean to tell me that you, Remus John Lupin, have been coerced into the life of a shitty little trouble-making delinquent by bad influences and, had you been left to your own devices, would never have ended up there on your very own?”

Remus stands there. He wants to argue. He really does.

Sirius smiles. “That’s what I thought. Now, can I suggest that you come over here and kiss me some more, or will you give me detention?”

 

***


	13. a night at the opera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You might’ve considered a haircut over the holidays. You’re starting to look like one of those long-haired rock and rollers.”
> 
> “I’ll assume the irony’s on purpose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knows what kind of update schedule I'm on? Not me!  
> Ten points to the house of whoever remembers Florence's canon appearance. Thanks for reading!

***

 

“Mind you lot pay me back,” Peter says. He stops to cough, and Tesla meows in protest on his lap. “I mowed lawns for this. Your go, Padfoot.”

Sirius lays down a card, which erupts into sparks. He makes a half-hearted attempt to light the joint with it, gives up, uses his wand. Their compartment at the back of the train has gotten a bit hazy. “How much?”

“Twelve pounds. Clive says he gave me a cousin discount but I don’t believe him.”

Lunging sideways over the seats, one of which happens to contain Remus, Sirius retrieves his bag from under the compartment window. “Dunno what that means. Hang on.” He digs through the bag with his free hand, gets some gold coins from one of the inner pockets, and dumps them onto the seat next to Peter, where Carlos the puffskein is rolling around. “That close?”

“Overshot a bit,” Remus says. He looks over at Sirius, who’s holding the joint lazily between two fingers like a cigarette. “Why d’you hold it like that?”

Sirius reclines back against the seat, takes a drag, exhales at length. “Looks cooler.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“Does.”

“You look like Liz Taylor.”

Peter coughs his way into breathless laughter; Sirius bares his teeth in a snarl at a giggling Remus, and Tesla flees under the seats. James bites the head off a chocolate frog and says, “Who’s Liz Taylor?”

“Almost as pretty as me, Prongs. Bite me, Moony. Whose go is it?”

“Go at what?” James says. “Oh, right.” He looks at his cards, slightly cross-eyed, and tosses one down. “What’s the score?”

“Fuck if I know,” says Sirius.

“Wormtail?”

“Nine hundred and three to eight hundred and twenty.”

“Excellent.” James sticks his hand out to Sirius, opening and closing his fingers until the joint is deposited between them. “Merci. Reckon we break a thousand within the month?”

“Definitely.”

“Dunno why we even try,” Peter says. Remus hums in agreement.

Even while very evidently stoned, James does paternal disapproval well. “Now _really_. Is that any attitude to start off the term with?”

“When it’s fifth year? Absolutely.”

“You’re bumming my high, Pettigrew.”

“What? Everybody knows this year is horrible,” Peter points out. “Not that you lot will have to worry, seeing as you’re geniuses. But for the rest of us mere mortals it’s a nightmare, everybody knows that.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” James says. He picks up Carlos, watches her roll up and down the length of his arm. “Look on the bright side— by the end of this year, we’ll have a whole bunch of O.W.L.s and be able to bloody _turn into_ _animals_. It’ll be great, you just wait and see.”

“Yeah,” Remus mumbles to his hand of cards. “Great.”

“We’ve got a whole month before the new moon to brew the last potion,” Sirius says. “Anything weird in this one?”

“Nah, recipe looked pretty simple. Probably won’t have to steal anything, unfortunately.”

“Couldn’t have done, anyway— we’ve a _prefect_ in our midst.”

“Fuck off,” Remus says.

“Think it’s not on that a transfiguration spell has got so much potion-y stuff mixed up with it,” James says. “And it’s got to sit for five whole months! Where will we keep it, even?”

“Why not in our room?”

“Because with the amount of tomfoolery that goes on in there one of us’ll spill it, that’s why not.”

“What if we kept it in the Shack?” Remus suggests. “Only people who are ever in there are me and Madam Pomfrey, nobody’d find it. As long as we put it somewhere the wolf won’t knock it over, that should work.”

“Sure, let’s do that. And if we—”

He’s cut off by the compartment door sliding open. Lily Evans stands on the threshold, squinting through the film of smoke. “Er,” she says.

James thrusts the hand with the joint in it behind his back. Carlos tumbles softly onto the seat. “Nothing.”

She gives him a deeply unimpressed look. “I haven’t asked you anything. Remus,” she says, turning to him, “you were to come sit with the prefects in our compartment, remember?”

Remus gapes at her. “Oh. Er.”

“I’ll cover for you.” She starts to shut the door. “See you.”

“So you’re the other prefect, then?” James blurts.

“Yes,” she says. She leaves.

James calls after her at the shut door. “Yeah, reckon you would be, since you hate fun!”

“She can’t hear you,” Sirius says.

“Guess you’re going to have to deal with _her_ , huh?” James says to Remus. “Too bad for you, that’s— that’s just. Awful, yeah? She’s awful.”

“Sure,” Remus says generously.

“Y’know who isn’t awful? My girlfriend. Have I mentioned how terrific my girlfriend is?”

“About twenty thousand times, yeah,” Sirius says.

“Well, she is. Can’t wait to see her. I’d go find her now, but I can’t feel my legs.”

“Good reason.”

Seeming to remember that he has hands, James passes the joint on to Remus. “Having a girlfriend’s the best. You lot should all get one.”

“Yeah, I’ll work on that,” Sirius says.

James opens his mouth and closes it. “I, er.” He fumbles for his hand of cards, discarded on the seat between him and Peter. “Oy, we still playing or not? Whose go is it?”

 

***

 

There’s a lot of nervous energy among the brand new fifth years on the first day of term, which Sirius counts as lucky. Hopefully nobody will notice the way he and Remus are avoiding all contact, eye and otherwise. Safer that way, he reckons.

Lessons finish for the day and Remus mumbles something about going to the library. After a carefully non-suspicious length of time, Sirius ditches the other two in the common room and bolts for the fourth floor, sliding down a bannister or two and nearly bowling down a group of frightened-looking first years.

It’s a lovely autumn day outside, and the library is deserted. Madam Pince shouts at him for running, which is probably why Remus is already looking up when Sirius finds him on the floor against a bookcase in a far corner.

A big dumb grin falls over Sirius’ face. He can’t help it. “Do you use chairs?”

Remus smiles back. “Yes, all four legs of them.”

“Shut it.” He tosses his bag to the floor and follows it down. “You’re only jealous I’m so much cooler and suaver than you.”

Remus stares down at the textbook in his lap. “I don’t think ‘suaver’ is a word. But then you’re the Sunday crossword master, not I.” He’s clearly trying to fix his face into something solemn and studious and Sirius is having a grand old time watching it not work. He scoots in closer, left knee knocking Remus’ right one.

His eyes have gone rather fixed on the page. “Have you done the Silencing Charm reading yet?”

“Nah, I’ll wing it.”

“Wish I could manage that.”

Sirius scoots in again. They’re hip-to-hip now.

Remus shoots him a look. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“You know what.”

“I’m afraid I don’t, you’ll have to be more specific.”

“I’ve really got to read this,” Remus says firmly. “It’s only the first day, I can’t reconcile falling behind _already_. We can’t all ‘wing it’.”

“Of course. Won’t interrupt.” Sirius reaches up to brush aside the fringe that’s fallen in Remus’ eyes. “You might’ve considered a haircut over the holidays. You’re starting to look like one of those long-haired rock and rollers.”

“I’ll assume the irony’s on purpose.”

Sirius pushes some hair behind Remus’ ear and lets his fingers linger a bit, finding the soft hollow behind his earlobe. Remus shivers.

He grins. Success.

“Just,” Remus begins, then cuts off, shutting his eyes. He takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose. “Just don’t touch me, alright? I can’t think when you touch me.”

Ignoring the little shiver of joy and wonder that sentence sends through him (he can make the great and clever Mr Prefect stop thinking, _he_ can do that), Sirius raises his hands in a _Who, me?_ sort of way. “Yes, of course. Wouldn’t want to distract.”

They sit in silence for a minute or two. Then Sirius lifts one finger and hovers it right next to Remus’ cheek.

Remus, who was already quite still, freezes. “What’re you doing.”

“Nothing.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he says sweetly. “Certainly not touching you.”

Remus closes his eyes again. There’s a long pause.

He slams his book shut. “Damn it all to hell,” he grumbles, swings his arms around Sirius’ neck, and kisses him hard. A happy sound falls out of Sirius without his permission; he catches Remus around his waist and wraps him in his arms, pulls him close, feels the weight and warmth of him and all becomes right with the world— oh Merlin, six weeks is too long to go without kissing Remus, how did Sirius _survive_ before?

Remus is cautious enough to draw back after a moment. He stays half on Sirius’ lap with hands in his hair, though, which may defeat the purpose. “The last twenty-four hours have been…challenging.”

“More like twenty-nine, but who’s counting?” Sirius says, running his hand in an idle circle over Remus’ back. Months and months since they started and it’s still a small miracle, getting to touch him like this. “You’re telling me. I about grabbed you on sight at King’s Cross, but the other two might’ve been a bit scandalised by that, so.” That makes Remus laugh, and Sirius ducks in and kisses him on the nose because why the hell not, and Remus rolls his eyes but he’s still smiling.

“Didn’t stop Florence and James from putting on quite a show on the Hogsmeade platform.”

“They’re amateurs,” Sirius says. “We could outdo them any day.”

He regrets the comparison immediately. There’s nothing to compare— James and Florence are a proper couple, after all. They walk down crowded corridors holding hands and kiss each other without looking round to make sure the coast is clear. They go on dates and their friends know about it, have known about it long enough to place them on the teenage dating scale at ‘pretty much married’, and it doesn’t matter that he and Remus started within an hour of them because he and Remus aren’t dating.

They haven’t talked about what they’re doing. What is there to talk about? Sirius knows that _What are we doing_ is an absurd question because _this_ is what they do, this right here: they act like normal boys ninety-nine percent of the time until they can sneak off somewhere and snog each other senseless for a few minutes, then they straighten their robes and flatten their hair and pray their friends don’t catch on. So what if Sirius gets sad about it sometimes? It’s plenty; he’ll take what he can get.

There’s a look on Remus’ face that Sirius can’t parse. “Yeah,” he says. He looks like he’s going to say something else, but the sound of footsteps somewhere nearby startles them apart. “Let’s relocate.”

They walk through the quiet stacks and out into the corridor. They move by habit in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, taking staircases at random and waiting for inspiration to strike, but when they reach the seventh floor they’re still weighing options.

“What about the lake? That one spot.”

“Nah, loads of people are outside,” Sirius says. “There’s always the trophy room.”

Remus’ face darkens. “Peeves might be in there.” Peeves has always particularly hated Remus. “Classroom eleven?”

“Please, everybody and their mum hides out in classroom eleven. Reeked like a Grateful Dead concert last time I went in there.”

“Where else, then? We know the tapestry corridor’s no good, and I’d rather not repeat the broom cupboard incident.”

“This is ridiculous. Other people haven’t got to deal with this.”

Remus sighs like he’s forty. He does that sometimes. “No, they haven’t.”

Sirius finds himself annoyed and angry for a bunch of nonsensical reasons. He’s annoyed with all the people out enjoying the grounds and any poltergeists who might be bouncing around the trophy room and anyone who may or may not be taking up classroom eleven, and he’s annoyed with James, who must’ve detailed the occasion of his first kiss with Florence at the party to the three of them about a thousand times since it happened, who tells everybody who will listen about how beautiful and clever and hilarious his girlfriend is.

Sirius knows he should be happy for him. That knowledge doesn’t keep him from feeling bitter about it. Why, James was still pining over Lily when the party started! How much can he adore Florence, really? Sirius, on the other hand, has only recently started to think back to times when his eleven-year-old self did stupid stuff to impress Remus or make him laugh, finally placing _why_ …

It’s unfair. And Sirius wishes that there was somewhere the two of them could go where they didn’t have to worry about it, because there’s always worry with them that nobody else has to deal with. Even when they catch a rare hour in the dormitory together when the other two are out doing other stuff, there’s still the need to be on their guard— somebody could come back early and open the door. Sirius wishes there was someplace where there was no chance of being interrupted and nobody could ever find them, and then maybe Remus wouldn’t always kiss him like he was about to be pulled away any second, touch him like he wasn’t supposed to. He wishes it really, really hard.

Sirius blinks. “Was that door always there?”

“What door?”

“There, look.”

Remus turns. “Erm,” he says. “No. No, it wasn’t.”

They look at the door, which is very much there, and then at each other. Remus shrugs, walks up to the mysterious door, and turns the knob. They both gasp.

The room is cavernous, the size of the Great Hall or larger. Its true size is hard to say because it’s crowded with aisles and aisles of…stuff. Objects piled in heaps tower at unlikely heights with alleys in between, winding their way through mountains of assorted junk.

“What the hell?” Sirius says.

They wander down the nearest aisle, mesmerised. There’s stacks of chairs and tables and cabinets with legs snapped in half or upholstery falling out, hills of books, suspicious-looking vials and bottles, jewelry and cloaks and hats, a winged catapult, telescopes and scales and swords, broomsticks, cauldrons, suits of armour with limbs missing, a big, bloodstained axe, and something with a snarling face that scares the living shit out of Sirius when he spots it in the corner of his eye. He jumps, spins around, and sees that it’s a taxidermic troll.

“That’s romantic,” he mutters. Then he trips backward over an empty birdcage, knocks over a set of ancient brass scales with a crash, and lands in a pile of oddly-smelling robes.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m—”

Sirius cuts off, getting to his feet. When he fell he landed deeper in this wall of junk, and now he’s face-to-face with something he couldn’t see from the aisle: a big, antique-looking mirror, standing on clawed feet in an ornate golden frame. There’s an engraving in another language around the top, but he doesn’t waste much time looking at that, too shocked by what he sees in the mirror’s surface. Sirius leans closer.

Reflected in the mirror is…well, it’s him, he’s sure of that. But it’s not his face at all. The colours are all different, for starters. Sirius has always hated how he pasty he is— so colourless he’s almost blue, like skim milk, like he’s ill. He gets it from both sides of his family. From Sirius’ reflection in this mirror, though, he’d think he got a suntan; but that’s impossible, he only ever burns. And that wouldn’t explain all the other stuff. His hair falls wavy to his shoulders the way it always has, but it’s a warmer brown than the black he and Regulus and their mum have, and those aren’t his eyes either, they’re not shaped or coloured at all like the ones he inherited from his dad. Even his nose, the one Narcissa and Andromeda and Bellatrix have all got, is different.

For a second Sirius freaks out— what strange powers does this room have?— but then he catches a glimpse down at his own hands, the ones attached to his body and not in the mirror. They’re sick-looking like always, translucently pale with stark greenish veins. He holds them up to the mirror and the sleeves of his robes slip down, baring the patchwork of yellow bruises on his left forearm. As usual, he can’t remember how he got those. _Somebody looked at me funny, probably_ , he thinks bitterly. But in the mirror his hands and arms are tanned like his face. There are no bruises.

“Remus.” He doesn’t move. “Come look at this.”

There’s the sound of Remus clambering over the birdcage and the scales before he’s at his side. “What?”

“Look at me!”

“What about you?”

“No, the me in the mirror, look.”

He looks, eyebrows furrowed. “What am I looking at?”

“My reflection doesn’t look different to you?”

“No,” Remus says. “What do you look like?”

“Better, way better!”

“Better? How?”

“Not the spitting image of my stupid cousin Bella, for starters,” Sirius says. “Not like any of them! Almost like I haven’t been inbred at all, would you believe it?” He has a hard time tearing his eyes away. A jolt of longing hits him square in the chest. What would it be like to not look like them, to not have people take one glance at him and know? “Here, look in it properly, I wanna know what you see.”

He moves over and Remus steps in. “What am I meant to see?”

“I dunno, I suppose it’s just a mirror that makes you look really good. Look.”

For a moment Remus stares at his reflection. “It’s not working.”

“You don’t look different at all?”

“I don’t think so…” He leans in closer to the glass. “Actually…huh. One thing.”

“What?”

“I’ve got this this scar on my face, I don’t know if you’ve ever n—”

“The one through your eyebrow, the left one?”

Remus looks up, surprised. Then he turns back to the mirror. “Yeah. It’s gone.”

“That’s it?”

“Seems to be.” Remus frowns. “Bit disappointing. I wanted to see what I looked like in the Magically Fit Mirror.”

Sirius shrugs. “The poor mirror had a tough job, it couldn’t think of anything to improve.”

In the reflection he sees Remus look at him, smiling quietly, and feels his face warm. “I mean, of course, that with a face as ugly as yours, it didn’t know where to start. That’s obviously what I meant.”

“Obviously,” Remus says, and before the word’s out of his mouth Sirius has reached down to reel him in by both hands. He pauses with their fingers threaded together for a moment before reaching around himself to leave Remus’ hands on his back. He brings his own up to settle on either side of Remus’ neck, holding him still. He takes his time. They’re in a secret room, hidden behind a stack of furniture, an old mirror, and a stuffed troll; they’ve got all the time in the world.

Later, they argue over whether or not to tell the others about the secret room.

“We’ve got to,” Sirius says as they’re leaving, “it’ll make James’ month. Remember how obsessed he used to be with finding all the secret stuff in Hogwarts? This is almost as good as a secret passageway— he’ll lose his mind!”

“If we can get in it again. How did that door just pop up?”

“Good point.”

Remus hums noncommittally. “Personally, I’m glad to see the end of that phase of James’. You might not remember all the suspicious looks we got from you two smacking statues with your wands all the time, but I do.” He sees the expression on Sirius’ face and goes on. “We’ve got enough going on with the Animagus project in full swing, I’m not exactly eager to reawaken another of James’ obsessions. Hogwarts can stay mysterious for a while.”

In the end it doesn’t matter. They never do find that room again.

 

***

 

“Let me get this straight,” James says slowly, face illuminated by the fire. The four of them kneel side-by-side on the uneven floorboards of the Shrieking Shack, squished together in front of the grate. They keep careful eyes on the simmering cauldron emitting purple glow in the darkness. “You’re telling me that Muggles _walked_ on the _moon_. Dream on, mate.”

“This is mad,” Peter says. “You’re a smart person, don’t tell me you don’t know about the bloody moon landing.” He turns to Remus, desperate. “How old were we? Sometime in primary school, it was.”

Remus thinks for a moment. He remembers watching it on television with Mum. He doesn’t think Dad was there, so— “Eight? Nine?”

James throws him a disbelieving look while he shifts forward to give the potion a stir. They finished their incantations a few minutes ago, but all the books say to wait for the potion to go dark before taking it off the fire. All that’s left to do is wait. “Pull the other one,” James says.

“Yeah, they walked on the moon,” Remus tells him. “Some Americans went up in a spaceship.”

From somewhere around his left ear he hears Sirius snort. “That’s a madder lie than anything Prongs and I have ever come up with.”

“It was on television!” Peter cries.

“Really?”

“Yes, really! Everybody on the planet watched it!”

“Not everybody,” Remus says. “I forget how much wizards miss…”

“Bloody everything,” Sirius mutters, sulky.

James, though, sounds more uplifted than ever when he exclaims, “How about that, then? If a bunch of Muggle nutters can fly out to the stars—” (“The stars are further away,” Peter mumbles, but James doesn’t pause) “—then what _can’t_ we do?” The purple light from the cauldron flashes the lenses of his glasses opaque. “I can’t believe I ever doubted us. We’re really doing it, aren’t we?”

Something sinks in Remus. “Seem to be.”

“I’m just saying, lads, this is really something! Supposed to be impossible for students, eh?”

“We’re not your average students,” says Sirius, beaming.

“Bloody smartest ones in the school, we are!”

“Let’s not rest on our laurels just yet,” Remus suggests. He feels very tired. “We’ve still a ways to go.”

“What’s a few more months?” James says, and Remus’ sinking feeling is back.

 

***

 

October proves to be an eventful month for their group. They make enormous progress in the Animagus spell, James helps Gryffindor win the first Quidditch match of the term, Sirius tries a hex on Snape that breaks him out in hives that don’t go away for days, and for the first time Peter successfully talks the dynamic duo out of throwing him a birthday party.

“Come on,” Sirius wheedles. “You’re sixteen! That deserves a party!”

“I’d really rather not.”

“There’s still loads of time to plan one!”

“For tonight?” Peter says.

“It’s Friday, why not?” James says. “I may not be able to orchestrate a legendary rager like you lot did for mine last year, but I can handle last-minute. Everybody knows I work fast.”

“Yeah, Florence mentioned that,” Sirius says. James swings his bag over his shoulder to wallop him with it, Sirius retaliates, and the two get so caught up in wrestling that the issue’s forgotten.

The rest of the month passes with Sirius and James plotting the annual Hallowe’en prank. Last year’s had the two of them disappointed: focusing all their efforts on one room (shrinking all the furniture in the Great Hall, specifically) made the prank exceptionally short-lived when Professor Flitwick reset the place with one wave of his wand.

“We’ve got to spread this one out,” Sirius says on the night before Hallowe’en, he and James unveiling the plan with great ceremony in the dormitory.

“Filch’ll be expecting us to strike tonight—”

“Reckon we’ve got a bit of a pattern, striking by night and all,” Peter says.

“Yep,” James goes on, “so instead we start early tomorrow morning. If we divide and conquer, we can have it all done by the time everybody leaves breakfast.”

Remus makes a face. “Awfully ambitious.”

“So are we,” Sirius says. “Here, write the incantation down…”

They head down to the silent common room at the crack of dawn.

“You lot take the Cloak,” Sirius says, tossing it in a wad at James. “Moony and I are stealthier than you.”

“Hang on, we’re in pairs now? We timed it out for solo missions, Black.”

“Yeah, but neither of them have done the spell before, they ought to have one of us with them just in case.”

“Good idea,” Remus says.

James runs a hand through his hair. “Fine, we’ll just have to hurry. You two take fourth floor and up, me and Wormtail will—”

“Far out, see you later,” Sirius says. He takes off for the portrait hole, beckoning Remus along behind him.

The portrait swings shut. Peter turns to James and says, “Have they seemed odd to you lately?”

“They’re always odd,” James says. “Hey, have you still got those maps you drew up a couple years ago? Should keep track of which rooms we get.”

 

***

 

“We really should’ve kept track,” Remus says, voice low in the shadowy corridor.

“How many did you get?”

“Everything along the east wing, just now. You?”

“Entire fourth floor. I think.”

They shut up for a moment as a ghost floats by them, eyeing them suspiciously. “You ‘think’?” Remus asks.

“We should’ve kept track,” Sirius repeats.

“We already did the sixth, you got the seventh…” Remus thinks hard, trying to remember. “God, this school is too big.”

“Whatever, we got plenty,” Sirius decides. They’ve met up in the middle of the fourth floor corridor, deserted at this time of morning; past the windows, there’s still pink left in the sky. “No trouble with the spell?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, all the furniture ended up on the ceiling every time, so I don’t think so.”

“Did you flip the whole rooms or just the furniture?”

“How…how do you flip a _room?_ ”

“Floor on the ceiling, ceiling on the floor, that sort of thing.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Eh, whatever,” Sirius says. “Still will be a great effect.”

“Awfully crafty.”

“Oh! I forgot to show you— speaking of crafty…” He beckons Remus over. “Dig this.” He tips his head back, baring his neck.

“What am I looking at?”

“Remember that big mark you put there a couple days ago?”

“Erm.” Remus clears his throat. “I recall, yeah.”

It isn’t there. Sirius drags a couple of fingers from the underside of his chin all the way down to his collarbone and holds them up for Remus to see. He beams. “Got sick of slathering on that stuff Evans gave me.”

“What on earth did you do to get it to heal so fast?”

“Oh, I didn’t.” Sirius crosses the corridor, stopping at the full-length mirror hung on the wall across from the library. It’s the same one Remus showed him his reflection in last term, Remus remembers, when they first encountered this problem. Sirius tilts his neck this way and that, watching himself in the mirror. “It’s a glamour. Impressive, yes?”

“Very.” Remus follows him over. “If only for managing to find a spell like that in the first place.”

“Nah, I made it up.”

That throws him for a second. “You made it up?”

“Yeah.”

“You…invented a spell.”

“So?”

“You, a fifth year, _invented a spell_.” Remus runs a hand over his face, rubbing at the space between his eyes. “For covering hickeys.”

“If that isn’t a noble cause, I don’t know what is.”

“Oh my god.”

As he laughs Sirius leans back against the mirror. Or he tries to, anyway— his weight against the mirror makes it swing inward like a door. He rights himself with a yelp, just avoiding toppling backwards into an emptiness where the wall should be.

“What the fuck?”

“Is that—” Remus rushes forward and lights his wand. In the darkness past the mirror, they see what looks like a steep stone slide, stretching down well past the pool of light. “Oh.”

Sirius blinks. “Is that…”

“The secret passageway you two spent third year looking for? I’d hazard a guess, yeah.” Remus reaches out with his wand as far as his arm will go in an effort to see the bottom of the slide, but no dice. “We ought to, I don’t know, maybe throw something down there? We can’t be sure it’s safe, but I don’t know how to—”

Sirius shoves past him, throws himself onto the slide, and slips out of sight with a whoop.

“Guess that works,” Remus mumbles.

It’s a bit before Sirius’ voice echoes up to him, a considerable way below: “We’re good!” Remus takes a deep breath and follows him down.

He must be sliding down through multiple stories, as long as it takes to hit the bottom. At the end of the slide is a stone chamber, softly lit by a few tiny, narrow windows near the ceiling at ground level. It’s a spacious room, completely empty, that tapers off at one end into a much narrower, darker tunnel. Sirius stands at the mouth of the tunnel, shining his wand in.

“This must’ve been how Reg did it, the sneaky little bugger,” Sirius says. “I’d given up on the whole thing, reckoned they’d just snuck him in under their cloaks…I’ll bet a thousand Galleons this goes to Hogsmeade. The ‘poking at statues’ bit must’ve just been to throw us off, we were going off that for months.”

Sirius whirls around, extinguishing his wand, and crosses back to the entrance. “A disappearing room is one thing, but _this!_ We can’t not tell them about this!” The moment his foot hits the bottom of the slide the smooth stone begins to undulate, freezing into a stairway. Sirius turns over his shoulder and calls, “Come on, I can’t wait to see their faces!”

Remus doesn’t move. “Er, hang on.”

“What?”

“Well.” He puts his hands in his pockets, surveying the chamber. “We’ve got two options.”

“Huh?”

“We could tell the others about this secret room, which is unlikely to disappear, where nobody could ever find us,” Remus says. “We could absolutely do that, yes. Or…we could not tell them.”

By the time he looks round again, Sirius is grinning. He starts to walk slowly toward Remus, punctuating every few steps with words while the smirk grows steadily sharper. “You…are so… _devious_.”

“Not devious, I think,” he replies. Sirius is stalking up into his space, look on his face like a dog watching a rabbit, but Remus keeps his voice casual. “Resourceful, yes, but I wouldn’t call myself devious.”

“Mm, wouldn’t you?”

“Certainly not, not for that,” Remus says airily. He sticks a hand back in his pocket, digs around for a second, then pulls out the joint he’s been saving. “No, I’m only devious for bringing this along.”

Sirius laughs so loudly that it echoes off the stone walls and so hard that he’s difficult to kiss, but Remus gets it after a couple of tries.

 

***

 

Peter maintains that it’s due to sheer dumb luck, not any lack of sneakiness on his part, that it’s him who gets caught and not James.

“Found him along the Charms corridor,” Filch reports gleefully, presenting Peter to Professor McGonagall in her doorway as though he were a million pound cheque. “Going from classroom to classroom, he was— _turning them upside down!_ ”

Professor McGonagall, though, seems less than shocked. She looks rather preoccupied, standing in her cracked office door, fingers pressed to an ache behind her eyes. “Is it Hallowe’en already?”

“Him and his little friends, wreaking havoc!” Filch says. “Thought they could outsmart me this year, but I’ll get them! I’ll round up the other three, Professor, and bring them straight to you—”

“No, no,” Professor McGonagall cuts in. She lowers her hand, peers at Peter over her spectacles. “No, Mr Filch, you…you deal with the others. I’d like a word with Pettigrew alone.”

Peter swallows.

Filch sputters, indignant. “But— but _Professor_ , those three have time and time again—”

“Then wake the headmaster, Argus,” she snaps. “Do what you will, but don’t bring them here.”

Filch scurries off, muttering under his breath, and Peter’s left alone with Professor McGonagall. He’s always terrified in her presence, of course, but this morning feels different. She seems distracted today. She looks at him for another moment, giving him the unnerving impression that she’s reading his mind.

“This is convenient, Pettigrew,” she says. “I was going to call you in after breakfast, but…as it is…” She opens her office door wider, gesturing him in.

Peter startles; there are three people inside already, sitting in chairs in front of the desk. There’s a man and a woman he doesn’t know, and—

“Peter!” Alice Higgs says, getting to her feet. She smiles widely. “Wonderful to see you! Merlin, you’ve grown a foot since I saw you last!”

He’s very confused. He turns to Professor McGonagall and says, “What’s going on?”

The four adults look at each other. Then the woman he doesn’t know says, “Shall we go see about some tea, Gid?”

The man stands up. “Yeah, great idea…excuse us, Professor…”

The strangers leave, and Professor McGonagall sits down at her desk. Alice keeps smiling at Peter, as though they frequently run into each other in his teachers’ offices. “How’re your lessons?”

“Er…good.”

“Quite the knack for Muggle Studies, this one,” Alice tells Professor McGonagall. “Have you still got that record player, the one Doreen and I worked on?”

“Er, yeah. It— it’s in our dormitory.”

“Does it still work?”

He nods. “Sirius uses it all the time.”

“How nice!”

Peter nods again, waiting for somebody to tell him what’s going on. When nobody does, he grasps at something to fill the silence: “How’s Frank?”

“Oh, great! Yes, he’s doing marvelously,” Alice says. “Busy with his Auror work, he would’ve quite liked to come today but— well, you know. Quite a busy job.”

“Right.” No, this is too weird, he can’t stand it— “Professor, what’s going on?”

Exhaling through her nose, Professor McGonagall gestures to a vacated chair. “Have a seat, Pettigrew.”

He does.

Alice sits down next to him, turns her chair slightly towards him, leans forward. “Peter,” she says, “I wonder if you could tell us more about what you and your friends heard in the Slytherin common room two years ago?”

His stomach drops out in shock. The two women look at him, expectant. This is not what he expected he’d be dealing with when Filch marched him up to the office, not at _all_. “I— er, maybe— maybe we ought to get the other three? They, er,” and the stammer’s back, of course it is, God, he _hates_ how nervous he gets, “they’ll remember more than me.”

“No,” Alice says quickly. “There’s no need to bother them. You’re precisely who we wanted to talk to, don’t worry about that.”

As Professor McGonagall continues to sit quietly, hands folded on her desk, Peter wonders who _we_ is.

“Er,” he says. “Wh—what more do you want to know?”

Alice takes a sheaf of parchment from the desk, flips through the pages. “So, that night you mentioned you saw…” She consults a page. “Carrow, Nott, Wilkes, Pucey, Rosier, and Avery, yes?”

“That, erm. That sounds right.”

“All older students, they’ve graduated by now,” she says. She sets the pages aside again, facedown. “But was there anybody else in the room?”

“Anybody…anybody else?”

“Yes. Well,” she says, “specifically, we’re wondering about younger students. Peter, you…” Alice darts the quickest of looks at Professor McGonagall, a question in it. At an incline of her head, Alice goes on. “Peter, you’ll know about this group in the newspapers, yes?”

He nods. “The Death Eaters. And the, erm…the person they follow. The one— the, the…” The bloody stammer. “They don’t know who he is,” he says, voice dropping off.

“There is quite an aura of mystery around a lot of it, which is what they want. And what we _don’t_ want,” she says, leaning toward him again. There’s an air of conspiracy about her, as if Peter were included with the _we_. “It’ll help us to know the names of everybody involved, to put a list together. Especially if they’re still at school, you understand.”

“Yeah.”

“I knew you would. So, I’d like you to think hard and see if you can’t remember anybody else in the room that night,” Alice says. “Maybe a younger student.”

And then Peter remembers.

_Regulus_ , he thinks. _They’re talking about Regulus._ His mind works quickly. Do they know they’re talking about Regulus? Would Alice (and the other two, this _we_ ) have bothered coming all the way here to ask if they already knew about Regulus, knew it for sure?

Because Peter can’t tell them. It would be high treason; he doesn’t need the memory of Sirius stepping on his foot in this very office not two years ago to tell him that. Turn in a best friend’s little brother? It’s unthinkable.

“For heaven’s sakes,” Professor McGonagall says. “Answer the question.”

Peter wonders what James would do. He wonders what Remus would do, or what anybody worthy of being a Gryffindor would do. He knows what they’d do: they’d lie, they’d say they don’t remember, it’d be easy. And Peter will never be able to say, later, why he didn’t do that, except that maybe the power of some perverse self-fulfilling prophecy wrapped around the thought _worthy of being a Gryffindor_ possessed him, made him open his mouth and say, “Regulus Black was there.”

Alice nods. “Thank you. That helps.”

Professor McGonagall gets to her feet. “That’ll be all, Pettigrew.”

But more words come out. “That—that thing that was in the newspaper, the—the skull thing they leave places, I— I think he drew that, too,” he says. “First, I mean, I think he drew it first.”

It’s clear that neither was expecting that: Professor McGonagall drops back into her chair, Alice looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “What?” Alice says.

“One of them— Avery, maybe, or, I dunno, one of them— when he came in he said something like, ‘Black, you’ll love it,’ or…or something,” Peter recalls. “Th-they’d drawn it. In the Entrance Hall, that night. And Regulus, he, he er, he’s always liked, you know, art and things, Sirius has got a bunch of his drawings even though he’d never admit it, I saw them once, when he told me to get something out of his bedside cabinet—” This is getting away from him. Peter takes a breath. “I think he drew it, and that the older boys liked it and copied it, and now that they’ve left school they’re using it out there too. I think that’s what happened.”

The two of them stare at him some more.

Finally, Alice says, “Thank you, Peter. I think that’s all we’ll need for now.”

 

***

 

Sirius wakes up on the morning of the last Hogsmeade visit before the holidays to see James in front of the mirror, fighting with his hair. He sits up in bed, stretches, and says, "Losing battle, mate."

"Got to try, haven't I?" James says. He's gotten a tub of gel from somewhere, and Sirius watches as he smoothes a generous dollop over his hair. The cowlick at the back flattens down for a moment, only to spring up again, undaunted. “Damn it.”

"Why the effort? We're used to looking at you."

"Not for you, bellend. I’m taking my lady out for a day in the village. Can't look like a classless guttersnipe.”

"You are a classless guttersnipe,” says a sleep-hoarse voice.

Sirius turns; Remus sits up in bed, bleary-eyed and ruffled.

"Good morning," Sirius says.

"Fuck off,” James says.

“Florence is used to it too, is it worth the bother?” Remus asks.

“Wormtail, weigh in." Sirius grabs his wand from the bedside cabinet, points it at Peter's sleeping form in the bed across the room, and says, " _Aguamenti_."

Tesla yowls, soaked. Peter starts awake, pushes wet hair out of his face. "Why," he mumbles, dazed.

"We're making fun of Prongs."

Peter looks over at James, making faces at his reflection. "Oh, your date."

"Yes!" James points his comb emphatically. "See, he gets it."

Climbing out of bed, Peter grabs the nearest articles of clothing and starts changing into them. "Will somebody dry my bed and the cat, please? I can't remember the spell."

Remus does, while James turns around and says, "Where're you going?"

"Breakfast, then library. "

" _Library?_ It's Hogsmeade today!"

"And I've been there a dozen times, haven't I?" Peter’s head emerges through the collar of one of Remus' jumpers. "I've got revising to do. And an Arithmancy essay."

"You could ace Arithmancy in your sleep!" Sirius protests, but Peter's already crossing the room, straightening his ill-fitting jumper and grabbing his bag. The door shuts behind him. “Boring,” Sirius says. He flops back down into bed.

It must take Sirius a couple of hours to wake up properly, because it isn’t until James runs off to meet Florence in front of Honeydukes that he realises he and Remus have been left alone. His heart leaps a bit. They stand there on the crowded High Street in the bitter cold, sharp smell in the air threatening snow, and look at each other.

“What do we do now?” Sirius says.

Remus shrugs. “What do you want to do?”

“Dunno. I don’t know where people take their Hogsmeade dates,” Sirius says. Then he realises what’s just come out of his mouth and regrets the day he was born. “Or, or where they go when there’s just two people, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Remus says.

“Weird to not be in a group, is all.”

“Of course.” Remus’ tone has gone all polite and formal, the way it does when he’s annoyed or upset. 

_Well done, Black_ , he thinks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply…anything.”

“It’s quite alright,” Remus says. He casts a glance around the street. “Oh, there’s a sale at the bookshop…I’ll meet up with you later?”

He tries to play it cool, act like his heart didn’t just sink somewhere around his knees. “Oh— yeah, right on, see you.”

Remus disappears into the press of people, leaving Sirius to stand there and be overwhelmed by the suspicion that he’s doing everything wrong. Then somebody directly behind him speaks.

“That was awful.”

He whirls around; Lily’s at his elbow, face flushed with cold, grimacing.

“Where did you come from?”

“You ran right into me,” she says. “You didn’t notice?”

“No.”

“Well, you did. And that was awful.”

He doesn’t bother pretending to not know what she means. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his cloak, turns on his heel, and stalks off in a direction at random. “Mind your own business.”

The top of Lily’s head hardly reaches his chin these days, and his legs are accordingly longer; it must be through pure determination, then, that she keeps up as he shoves through the crowd. “I’m only trying to help,” she says.

“No, you’re just a gossip who wants to know everybody’s business.”

“I’m not a gossip, I’m nosey. There’s a difference.”

In his desperate bid to escape, Sirius nearly topples an old lady carrying a stack of cauldrons. “Yeah, sure.”

“‘Gossip’ implies I would go and tell somebody.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“About this? Of course I wouldn’t.” She sounds genuinely insulted. “I’m perfectly trustworthy, especially when a secret’s important.”

They’ve reached a thin spot in the crowd; Sirius ducks under the thatched overhang of the apothecary and tugs her along by the sleeve. Once they’re safely out of the way, tucked into a corner where bay window meets grey brick, he says, “Shouldn’t you be off with your boyfriend? Where’s Whitby?”

She shrugs. “Marco said he’d meet me, but he’s a bit irritated with me right now, so who knows. Shouldn’t you be off with _your_ boyfriend?”

Sirius feels his face heat up from either annoyance or embarrassment, he can’t tell which. “He’s not— it’s not the same thing.”

“It’s not?”

“No, you can’t— what would that look like? Boyfriend and boyfriend? Can you even _do_ that?”

“Why not?”

“Because…because it’s not the same thing!” he sputters. He marvels at the turn the last five minutes have taken. “We couldn’t tell our friends or go on dates or— or hold hands in public or do any of the shit proper couples do, so I don’t…” He waves his hands, frustrated. “It’s apples and oranges, right? And I doubt that’s what he wants, anyway.”

Her expression changes at the last sentence, eyebrows raising. “So, which of those is it?”

“What?”

“You don’t think two boys can date each other, or you think he doesn’t want to? Because those are two very different problems.”

Sirius groans, slumps back against the wall. It’s weird enough saying any of this out loud. “It’s just not like that, alright? We’ve been friends since forever, we couldn’t, y’know…” He trails off, no earthly idea what he’s trying to say.

She crosses her arms. “I mean, if the answer to ‘why not’ is just that you don’t fancy him, that’s—”

He snorts.

“So, you do?”

They pause while the door to the apothecary jingles open and exhales a group of seventh years. When the coast is clear, Sirius says, “I’ve had a huge crush on him since first year. Besides, you’ve seen him.”

“What?”

He gives her a look like _duh_. “He’s the best-looking boy in school.”

Mouth slightly open, she stares at him for a second.

“What?”

“Oh…oh, you really do think that, don’t you?” she says, brows furrowed. “Oh, Sirius.”

“ _What?_ ”

“He’s a lovely boy, but he’s perfectly unremarkable to look at, which you would know if you didn’t like him so much. That is so sweet, oh my god.”

“I don’t believe you. I’m not sweet. Sod off.”

“He’s an _awful_ prefect, by the way,” she adds. “Total pushover. And he skives off in the middle of patrol, disappears to god kn—” She cuts herself off, gesturing hands freezing midair. “I’ve just figured out where he goes.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

She gives a _well, figures_ sort of sigh, breath fogging in front of her. “I noticed that you’d stopped borrowing my foundation, so until a minute ago I’d assumed it’d ended between you two.”

“No, I’ve just gotten more creative.”

“Oh?”

“Made up a glamour.”

“Good _lord_.” She runs a hand through her hair. “I don’t know how I look him in the eye anymore.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re still dating,” she says. “Or— sorry, not dating, just—” She pitches her voice as deep as it’ll go, puts on a cartoonishly posh accent. “Oh, erm, _not in a group_ , er, erm, _just two people I mean_.”

“Shut up,” he says. “And that’s not what I sound like.”

“I know it’s none of my business—”

“Do you, though?”

“—but what’s the point of not telling him?”

“Not telling him what?”

Before she can answer, the apothecary door bell jingles again. Lily’s facing the door and sees who it is before Sirius does; her face constricts into a rather nervous smile. “Hey!” she says.

Sirius turns. Standing under the overhang is Snape, looking like an underfed bat in his overlarge cloak. “Hi. Wh—” His eyes fall on Sirius and narrow. “What’s he want?”

“Nothing, let’s go,” Lily says. She darts forward, takes Snape by the arm, and turns them around. She tosses over her shoulder, “See you.”

Sirius paces after them. “What, Snivellus, I’m not allowed to talk to people?”

Lily looks back at him, green eyes boring into his, and grits through her teeth, “ _Shut up_.” She tugs on Snape’s arm again. “Sev, now.”

“I don’t want people harassing my friends,” Snape says. “I think that’s allowed.”

“ _Harassing?_ ” Sirius lets out a sharp laugh; his hand goes to his wand. “I’ll show you ‘harassing’, you—”

“Knock it off!” Lily snaps, sounding properly angry now. “You’re not—”

“Without your cronies?” Snape sneers. “You’re only good when you’re doing the outnumbering, Black.”

Sirius tastes metal, lifts his wand, opens his mouth to speak a hex— and feels his wand slip upward through his fingers like a cork from a bottle, watches it fly overhead.

Snape catches it. He smirks and spins it round his fingers, smug. Sirius looks at him for a moment, shrugs, and hurls himself forward.

His shoulder slams into Snape’s chest, sending them both careening to the ground; Sirius’ back smacks against the cobblestones, knocking the breath out of him. Passersby shout and cheer and Lily screams something but he doesn’t hear any of it, busy scrambling upright and catching his breath, and he lunges for his wand in Snape’s left hand while dodging the knee aimed at his stomach, pins him with his elbow as Snape thrashes around for his own wand, dropped to the ground an arm’s breadth away—

“What’s going on?”

“Get him, Black!”

“Yeah, knock his teeth in!”

“Somebody grab them, somebody—”

There’s commotion on all sides of students cheering them on, and Sirius catches a glimpse of doors swinging open as shoppers stop to see what the racket is, and he’s got Snape by the wrist but still he can’t get his bloody wand free, and he finally distinguishes Lily’s voice as she throws herself into the tumult, wedging herself between them on the ground.

“ _No!_ Absolutely NOT, you—”

She fights dirty: Sirius yelps as she grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks it back, drags him away. But Snape leaps after him and struggles against her, and as she whirls around Sirius watches her elbow swing toward his face and his vision whites out, he has the impression of somebody clanging a bell inside his skull, and he’s flat on his back again.

“Oh my god!”

He hears Lily’s shocked cry over the ringing in his ears, but not much else. With a sick rush of vertigo he clutches at the pain throbbing in his face; it feels as though his cheekbone’s exploded. When sound comes back he hears the cacophony’s changed: there’s less cheering now, more people struggling forward to investigate. He pries one eye open and sees Lily kneeling on the wet stone in front of him, horrified.

“Did,” he manages, “did you _elbow me_ in the _eye?_ ”

“It was an accident!” she wails. “Can you see? Are you—” 

She cuts off, and Sirius feels somebody behind him tug him to his feet. His vision swims, and he can’t tell who’s propping him up and asking, “Are you going to be sick?”

“No.”

“What year is it?”

“1975.”

“What day is it today?”

“Er, Saturday.”

“You haven’t got a concussion,” says the voice. It’s young and female, and familiar. Then it says, “This should help some,” and he feels a stab of cold through his injured eye. He blinks it open.

The grey fuzz clears from his vision, but Sirius still isn’t sure he’s not concussed when he says, “ _Andromeda?_ ”

 

***

 

The last people on earth Remus wants to run into at the moment are Florence and James on their date, but, well.

“The line is mad at Honeydukes,” Florence tells him. She and James hover near a brightly-coloured display of jinx spellbooks, clasped hands hanging between them. “We should’ve gotten there earlier.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Where’s Padfoot?” James asks.

“Dunno.”

“What’re you lot off by yourselves for?”

Remus would like to be melodramatic and respond, _Why shouldn’t we be, not as though we’re on a date_ , but instead he shrugs. “Just had different stuff to do.”

“Do you want to walk round with us?” Florence asks, because she’s sweet that way, while at her side James shoots Remus a _Say yes and I’ll put spiders in your bed_ look.

“That’s nice of you, but I’ve got errands to run anyway,” Remus says, kindly as he can manage. He edges around them toward the exit. “I’ll be off, then…”

“Alright— see you, Remus!”

As he reaches the door he sees James look over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, and mouth _Errands?_ Remus waves him off and leaves.

He takes off down the street, not paying much attention to where he’s going, busy feeling sorry for himself and feeling ridiculous about feeling sorry for himself. What did he expect? He got what he wanted, didn’t he? It’s more than he ever, _ever_ thought he’d get, this kind of closeness with anybody, let alone somebody like Sirius. What’s he so upset about, then? Of course Sirius isn’t as emotionally involved in it as he is; he’d assumed that already. It’s childish, getting so woe-is-me just because…what? The boy he likes said they weren’t on a _date?_ That’s all that’s happened to make Remus so mopey. God, how embarrassing.

He does feel awfully fucking fifteen, sometimes.

Ducking into the first shop he sees— Gladrags, well, he could do with some new socks— Remus vows to get over himself. He isn’t going to think about it.

 

***

 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Andromeda says, hands around her warm tankard. “I search the whole village and find you in the middle of a fight.”

Sirius rearranges the wad of dishtowel and ice Madam Rosmerta gave them, presses it against his eye. It’s only now starting to properly hurt, an ache through his whole head. “Reckon I’m rather consistent, yeah.” He lifts the ice away for a moment. “Swelling any better?”

“Still pretty awful.”

“It’ll look worse than it is, though.”

“Oh, right,” she says. “I’d forgotten you had it.”

“Be glad it skipped you, it’s bloody annoying.”

“I bet.”

It’s beyond weird, Andromeda sitting here in front of him after all this time. She looks older in some unspecific way, as if in the four years since he’s seen her she’s magically metamorphosed into an adult. Her face is narrower, maybe, and her brown hair is twisted up at the back of her neck instead of flying around her face like it always had in his memories of her. “We can expect Reg in eventually, yes?” she asks.

“Probably. Why?”

“Good. Do keep an eye out for him, won’t you? Grab him when he comes in.”

“Why?”

She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, dark eyes on the door. “Something I’ve got to talk to him about. It’s good you’re here too, but it’s your brother I need to see. Hope he shows up soon, I can’t stay long…”

“Right.” He takes a drink of butterbeer with his free hand, waiting for her to explain what’s going on, or at least act happy to see him. She stays quiet, gaze flitting nervously between the door and the frosted window.

“Dromeda, what’s going on?”

“I’ll explain once he’s here.” She takes a deep breath, collects herself. “So? What’s up with you?”

Sirius rolls the eye he isn’t pressing with ice. “You can’t vanish for four years after eloping and getting disowned and then ask _me_ ‘what’s up’, that’s not how it works.”

Andromeda sighs. “I suppose that’s fair. Want to see my daughter?”

“I— yeah!”

She smiles. She digs in her handbag, pulls out a photograph, and slides it onto the table in front of him. The toddler in the picture sits in a garden, waving an uprooted plant happily in one fat fist.

“She’ll be three in March. She’s every bit as difficult as she looks,” Andromeda says fondly. “Her hair still changes colour every couple of days but her face has become fairly consistent, thank Merlin.”

“Her…what?”

“Didn’t I tell you? Nymphadora’s a Metamorphmagus. It’s not in either of our families as far as Ted and I know, but the Healers say it’s not necessarily genetic.”

Sirius likes babies as much as the next person, he supposes, but there’s more pressing stuff he wants to know. “Speaking of our family…”

“What of them?”

What he wants to ask is _What happened_ , but even he knows that’s less than tactful. “Do you hear from them ever?”

“My unnatural, disgraceful marriage isn’t yet water under the bridge, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says. That wry look is familiar, at least. “I haven’t heard from anybody in years. Dad wrote me but only the once, I expect Mum told him off.”

“And the twins?”

“Nothing. Next to it, anyway— Bella sent me a wedding invitation just to inform me I wasn’t to come. Attached a Howler to the thing. Cissy’s kept radio silence.”

“She’s engaged now,” Sirius says. He tries to make a face, but his black eye throbs when the muscles move. “I remember him. He’s a prat.”

“Naturally he is, Narcissa’s out to win the ‘which of the sisters Black can marry the biggest prat’ competition,” Andromeda says. She takes a sip of her drink. “She’ll have a few prat babies, Bella will grow ever more resentful…”

“Huh?”

“Bella and Rodolphus found out she can’t conceive,” Andromeda explains. “She’s taking it rather hard, from what I’ve heard.”

“If no one’s talking to you, how do you—”

“I like to keep an eye on my sisters.”

“Legally?”

She doesn’t answer, just looks out the frosted window with a grimace. “It’s going to be even worse between those two, now that Bella’s one reason for existing is moot.”

That shocks Sirius a little. “That’s mad,” he says. “So what if she can’t have kids? Did she even want them? That’s not all she’s good for.”

Andromeda gives a short, bitter laugh. “That’s very progressive of you, Sirius, but you’ve no idea what being a woman in this family is like. It’s made quite clear that our purpose is to get married right out of school and have pureblood babies.” The wry smile again. “I’ve got the first covered, but I daresay they weren’t thrilled with how I handled the second.”

“Reckon they weren’t.”

“At least I’m out,” she says. “You’ve still got another few years ahead. I expect they’ll start introducing you to pureblood girls to match you with soon, if they can find any.”

Unluckily, Sirius chose right then to take a drink of his butterbeer. He chokes. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t act so shocked, you’re the heir. You’re every bit as valuable for your reproductive potential.” A look of distaste flits across her face. “I could’ve phrased that better. Eurgh.”

“That, er,” Sirius mumbles, “that’s going to be a problem.”

“I understand, believe me.”

Sincerely doubting that, he changes the subject. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on? You’re acting really dodgy.”

“I think it’s best we wait on—”

“I don’t want to wait!” The back of his throat feels tight. “You show up after _four years_ and tell me that you can’t stay long, and, oh yeah, you’re only here to see Reg anyway? I thought we were friends, I thought it was us against— against all of _them._ ”

“Sirius, I…” Andromeda trails off with a sigh. He doesn’t remember her sighing so much. “There’s a lot at stake. I have a family now, I’ve had to make tough decisions. Ted and I are in the process of leaving the country, it’s not safe for us. I promise I’m not shutting you out on purpose, I’ve missed you terribly and I worry about you all the time. You’ve got to understand how dangerous it is that I’m even _here_ right now, but I couldn’t stand by while—”

A flurry of movement at the door catches Sirius’ eye. He’s on his feet, bundle of ice forgotten on the table. “Oy! Regulus!”

He’s right there in that pack of his, with Mulciber and Rookwood and whichever snakes it is today, and his eyes swing round to Sirius. “What?”

“C’mere.”

Sirius watches Regulus spot Andromeda and freeze, just for a moment, before turning to his friends. He says something Sirius can’t hear over the noise; the rest of them disappear into the pub. Regulus walks over.

He stares at Andromeda as if she’s a wild animal that’ll lash out and bite him any second. “What do you want?”

She stands up from their booth, smiling, and says, “What, I can’t drop by and visit?” She steps forward for a hug.

Regulus recoils. “What do you want?”

“I, er.” She’s visibly thrown. “Why don’t you sit down? There’s something I’d like to talk with you about.”

“Don’t wanna sit down.”

“Alright. Er.” Sirius sees her cast a wild glance around for inspiration, and her eyes land on the photograph on the table. She grabs it and thrusts it toward Regulus. “Want to see your new little cousin? Her name’s Nym—”

“I don’t care about you or that Mudblood thing!” Regulus snarls. “What’re you doing showing up here? It’s humiliating!”

“Listen to me, Reg, it’s important that you listen to me, alright? Please, just sit down.” She steps forward, reaching for his arm, but Regulus recoils again.

“Don’t touch me!” He swallows hard, hands going to fists at his sides. “Want me to forgive you for what you did, is that it? Well, it’s not going to happen. You left us, you betrayed all of us, he wasn’t there when it happened,” he points at Sirius with a shaking hand, “but I was, I remember, I was the one who had to see it, wasn’t I?”

People are turning around to look at them now, and Andromeda’s voice has gone low and urgent: “Reg, I’m begging you, I want you to be safe, those people haven’t got your interests at heart but I do, I just want you to be _safe_ —”

Suddenly Regulus is in her space, wand pointed between her eyes. Somehow the thing Sirius’ brain chooses to latch onto is that he’s as tall as she is now.  

“Try to talk to me again, contact me at all, and I’ll hex you,” Regulus mutters. “I know some good ones now.” He pockets his wand, turns, and strides into the bustle of the pub and out of sight.

For a moment she just stands there. Then she sits, lips pressed together, eyes down. “I really don’t know if I expected that to work.”

“It wouldn’t’ve.”

She looks up at him. “You knew, then?”

“For a long time. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

She runs a hand over her mouth, then nods. “Well, I had to try, didn’t I?”

“How’d you know, anyway? Why now?”

“Professor McGonagall wrote me.”

That surprises him. “McGonagall? Why?”

“She knew your parents wouldn’t be bothered, I was the last resort to help. She’s an amazing woman. Never cared I was in Slytherin.” Andromeda casts a glance around before continuing. “She got a tip from somebody, apparently. That he was involved.”

“A tip? From who?”

“I don’t know, but she said—”

“You don’t _know_?”

“Hardly the priority, Sirius,” she snaps. “She mentioned this.”

Andromeda goes for her handbag again, searches for a moment, and puts another photograph in front of him, one with ragged edges torn from a newspaper. Sirius knows what it is even before he looks: the skull with the snake. This time, though, it’s painted onto what looks like the front door of somebody’s house, the glass in the tiny window blown out and jagged. “It’s been showing up all over the country, wherever the group’s attacked. She told me,” Andromeda says, so quietly he can hardly make it out over the noise of the pub, “that somebody’s claiming he drew it. Designed it, rather.” 

“What, you’re saying Reg’s been going round painting this on people’s houses? That’s mad, he’s barely fourteen!”

“That’s not what I’m saying, if you’d let me finish,” she says cooly. Sirius shuts up. “I’m saying that the little nascent gang of them at Hogwarts has more involvement with the proper group outside than anybody thought, if they’re using the drawings of a schoolboy as their calling card. She was quite disturbed by the information, and rightly too, I think.” Andromeda leans forward and fixes Sirius with her brown eyes, urgent. “The school authorities thought they were just a fan club with no real involvement, but this indicates otherwise. And if it’s true, Reg’s caught in the thick of it. He’s in real danger, Sirius.”

With no idea what to say, Sirius stares down at the table. The ice is melted in the dishtowel.

 

***

 

“And getting a shiner from Lily Evans plays into this story how?”

“It doesn’t,” Sirius says. He’s got a new bundle of ice pressed to his face. “That’s just background.”

“Right,” James says.

He drops the towel-wrapped ice, where it falls to the dormitory floor with a wet _flop._ “Andromeda’s been hanging round the village _every weekend_ since McGonagall told her, waiting for the Hogwarts kids to show up, can you believe that?”

“Can’t imagine anybody wanting to see you that badly,” James says, flicking a card at Sirius just as it ignites. Sirius’ sleeve catches fire and he yelps; Remus puts it out with a lazy wave of his wand. The score is one thousand and eleven to eight hundred and sixty-eight. Peter, who has given up all hope for this hand, puts down a card without looking at it.

“I don’t understand,” he asks, “why can’t she just send you a letter?”

Sirius studies his own cards as he answers, “Because if it’s escaped your notice, Wormtail, I’m heir to the oldest and most powerful magical family in Britain.”

“Well, yeah, but—?”

“They can control the post in and out of here. They don’t want her to, I dunno, bend me out of shape. Moony, your go.”

Remus puts down a card. “Rather a foregone conclusion, I think. What happened when he came in?”

“What d’you think happened?” Sirius says. “He told her to sod off, of course. Not in those words, but yeah, essentially.”

James lets out a low whistle. “Rough. Then again, dunno what she thought she was going to accomplish. You don’t convince somebody to quit the dark side with a nice chat.”

“She was scared, I expect,” Sirius says. “Said it was news to all the adults that the kids here actually are in league with You-Know-Who’s people out there in the real world, they aren’t just throwing poses. Don’t know why that’s so surprising, they’re all foul enough.”

“Well, Regulus is, what, thirteen?” Remus points out. “It’s a bit shocking that he’d be of any import to the group at large.”

“He’s fourteen, and he’s not _of import_ , just his drawing is,” Sirius says sharply. “But what’s really got me about all of this is how she found out. ‘Got a tip’? From who? Somebody told on him! Could’ve gotten him expelled, or worse!” He gives a low growl at the back of his throat. “Whoever it was, I’ll kill them. But _who_?”

Peter has the sudden sensation of being punched in the stomach. By a troll.

“Yeah, and why?” says James, batting away some errant sparks from his cards. “Who else knew he did the drawing?”

“All of them knew, they all had it all over their bags and things a couple years ago,” Sirius says. “But which of them would tell on one of their own? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Do any of them have a particular grudge against Regulus?” Remus asks.

“Reg doesn’t have enough of a personality to hold a grudge against. Never steps on anybody’s toes.”

“Hang on…” James eyes are widening behind his glasses. “What if it wasn’t somebody in the group?”

“How do you work that one out?”

“I dunno, but it’s the next logical step, isn’t it? Who else knew he did the drawing?”

“Nobody,” Sirius says. His eyebrows draw together as he frowns. “I guess, except…”

“Snape, it must’ve been Snape,” Peter blurts. His heart thunders in his ears but, somehow, his voice comes out even. “He knew, remember? That night in the Forbidden Forest, he said so. And—and there’s the grudge, right? If nobody has one on Regulus, I mean. It wasn’t on him, it’s on _you_. He knew he could mess with you by getting Reg in big trouble.”

There’s a suspended moment where Sirius stares at him. Peter can’t breathe. He wills himself not to panic and give himself away, but Sirius’ steely grey eyes are still locked onto him. Sirius knows he’s lying, he must, he knows what Peter’s done and any second now he’s going to start shouting or throw him out or, or take out his wand— any second it’ll all be over, the few bright, warm years of Peter’s life when he had _friends_ —

“Fucking hell, Wormtail,” Sirius says lowly. “You’re exactly right.”

James jumps to his feet. “That dirty, stinking _sneak_!” He begins to tread angry circles on the floor. “It all makes sense! Of course it was him, who else would it be but that ugly, useless, conniving—”

“Sirius?”

When Peter looks over he sees that Sirius has also gotten to his feet. He’s stock still. 

“Sirius,” Remus repeats, standing up, “are you alright?”

“I’d like to kill him,” Sirius says. With his face twisted in anger he barely looks like himself; there’s something wolflike about the downward curl of his mouth. “I’d very, very much enjoy killing him.”

Remus reaches for him with both hands, his voice calm but firm: “Sit down. Let’s not—”

The movement’s so quick Peter doesn’t catch it. He hears a snarl, and a moment later Remus trips back against the nearest four poster and Sirius stalks away, panting and furious.

“He could’ve been _arrested!_ ” Sirius shouts as he takes out his wand, swiping it through the air like a sword. A lamp shatters, sending shards of pottery flying; Peter flinches and James gives a surprised shout. Remus straightens up and watches Sirius, his face impassive.

“Does Snivellus think this is a game? A fun thing to laugh about with his little Death Eater pals? Oh yeah, so hilarious, let’s get a kid half our size _thrown to the fucking dementors!_ ” Another slash of his wand, and a pillow on the nearest bed bursts into a puff of feathers. “You know what’ll really be _funny_? When I kill the smug little fucker, that’s what’ll be funny! I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll KILL HIM!”

A final slash; the lantern overhead explodes. They all duck as glass sprays down in a heavy hail, Tesla yowls, and the dormitory plunges into darkness.

Nobody moves. They sit in the dark, the silence broken only by the sound of Sirius’ panting breath. Then the room swims with blue light.

A tongue of flame cupped in his palm, Remus looks at Sirius. “Are you finished?” he asks, courteous.

Peter can’t be sure, but he thinks Sirius’ face goes faintly purple in the flickering blue light. He nods.

“Right,” Remus says, all business. “Well, first let’s get one thing straight: nobody’s sending Regulus to Azkaban. He’s barely fourteen years old. He could’ve drawn a thousand Death Eater symbols, they can’t argue that a schoolboy had any say in what was done with them.”

“But what makes you think—”

“That he didn’t have any say?” Remus says. They could be discussing Charms homework. “Maybe Regulus will surprise us all in time by being a Death Eater mastermind and not just a kid caught up in something bigger than himself, who knows. But even if that were the case, he hasn’t committed any crimes. Nobody’s coming after him.”

Remus levels a stare at Sirius and something changes in his gaze. It goes softer, maybe. “I promise you that.”

Finally, Sirius nods. He raises his wand and mumbles, “Reparo.”

The room puts itself right, feathers returning to pillow and glass and pottery reforming in midair. The light comes on again; Remus extinguishes his blue fire.

As Sirius lowers his wand again, he avoids anybody’s eyes. “Look,” he says, “I don’t care about Regulus, alright? He’s one of them, I don’t give a damn what happens to him. He and the rest of the snakes can get themselves killed or expelled or arrested, I don’t give a shit, okay? It’s, it’s just that…” He shakes some hair out of his face and looks to James for support. “If Snivellus thinks he can mess with me like this, if this is his stupid revenge or whatever, he’s got another thing coming.”

“Hear hear, mate.” James claps Sirius on the back. “We’ll get him, don’t you worry.”

Peter feels sicker than ever.

 

***

 


	14. give us a wink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We're still kids, you know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The listed number of chapters has changed; I decided that I'll break for Part 2 a chapter earlier than I'd anticipated. This is the second to last chapter for Part 1. Many thanks to everybody who's kept with it this far. Thanks for reading!

***

 

Remus and Sirius don’t get any time alone in the last week before the winter holidays. Remus doesn’t try to force it; he doesn’t blame Sirius for being a bit more withdrawn than usual after what happened the day of the Hogsmeade trip. It isn’t until they’re at King’s Cross, standing on the bustling platform after James and Peter have swept off toward their families, that they speak privately at all.

“Hey, I wanted to say something,” Sirius says.

Remus faces him, hands in his coat pockets. “Sure.”

“It’s just, er.” Sirius glances around, drops his voice. “The other day in the village, I think…I keep feeling as though I’ve cocked something up.”

Remus, who knows exactly what he’s referring to, plays politely dumb. “What gives you that idea?”

“Well, I accidentally said that thing about us being on a date,” Sirius says, quickly, with the air of ripping off a plaster, “and it really was an accident, I didn’t mean to make you feel as though—”

“It’s quite alright.”

“And then when you didn’t speak to me all week, I reckoned I’d made it weird.”

Remus is taken aback. “I didn’t not speak to you, _you_ didn’t speak to _me_.”

“Well, now I’m confused.”

“By the double negative or the sentiment?”

Sirius makes a huffing noise that’s distinctly canine. “Are you angry with me or aren’t you?”

“Of course not, why would I be angry with you?” Remus says, confused. Out of all the ways he’s felt this week, ‘angry’ hasn’t been one of them. Plenty frustrated, sure, but only ever at himself. 

“I shouldn’t have said it,” Sirius says, “but it really was just an accident, I know that you don’t want this thing with us to be, er, to be—”

“There isn’t a ‘thing with us’,” Remus says, firmly. He wants to let Sirius off the hook here; he must feel awfully sorry for Remus, judging by how miserable he looks. He appreciates the attempt to let him down easy. He really does. “I understand. You haven’t got to defend yourself. It is what it is, and it isn’t anything.”

Sirius nods. “Right. ’Course it isn’t,” he says, and Remus can’t understand why he still looks so unhappy. “Well, erm…See you soon, then?”

“Yeah, of course. Come round whenever, Mum’ll be pleased to see you.”

“Yeah.” Sirius gives an odd little lurch before patting him on the arm, as if he intended a hug but then thought better of it. He says, “See you, Moony,” and disappears into the crowd.

 

***

 

“Mal won’t shut up asking after you,” Brianna says. She’s at the counter sorting through preorder forms while sleet falls in icy grey sheets outside the shop window. It’s three days to Christmas. “Keeps asking, ‘Sure he’s not been funny?’ and the like, it’s right weird. Reckon he thinks you’ve gone and got into drugs.”

Sirius, halfway through changing out the record on the turntable, shrugs. “Only on occasion.”

“Everything in moderation,” she says sagely. She chews on the end of her pencil. “Bit rich coming from him, though,” she says, garbled, “seeing as he did enough drugs in the sixties to make Lou Reed look like a schoolgirl. How many times you looking to play that, lad?”

“Several more,” Sirius says, sliding the vinyl from its sleeve. “Can’t listen to it at home, I’ve got to memorize it while I’m here.”`

“You got a crush on Patti Smith now?”

The dark-haired, devil-may-care lady looks up at Sirius from the cover of the record sleeve, jacket slung over her shoulder, chin up. “You know,” he says, “for her I might make an exception.”

Brianna’s only half-listening. “To what?”

“Nothing. You’d think Malcolm would have better things to do than worry about me.” The record spins to life. _Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine._ “The radio gig not keeping him busy?”

“Would think, wouldn’t you? Still dunno how he got the thing. Listen, love,” Brianna says, spitting out the well-gnawed pencil, “you’re not mixed up in nothing dodgy, are you? He was definitely on about somethingspecific, and it makes a woman right nervous. Makes me think he knows something I don’t.”

Sirius groans. Malcolm and his paranoia are pushing the limits of both the International Statute of Secrecy and Sirius’ patience. You’d think Sirius was getting into fights with Death Eaters every other day, the way he worries. Not that that’s exactly _un_ true— he and James do hex Slytherins rather often— but Malcolm doesn’t know that.

“I dunno why he’s so weird, do I? The last thing I need is _both_ of you on my case.”

“Alright, alright, whatever. Just don’t let nobody say he’s a better adult than me.”

“You’re both horrible adults. He doesn’t get points for worrying over absolutely nothing.”

“I am not _horrible_ ,” Brianna protests. She waves a hand at the pile of forms in front of her. “Do my own paperwork and everything. All he does is go and play records and be witty on the radio. Hardly a grown-up job, I’d reckon.”

“You should put him on,” Sirius says, remembering. He takes the needle off the record and explains, more truthfully than she can possibly know, “The wireless at my house doesn’t pick it up.”

She goes to the radio, giving him a funny look. “Everybody from here to Wales picks up his station, what the hell kind of machine have your parents got?”

“A bad one,” Sirius answers. He’s never even bothered trying to find Malcolm’s station on wizarding wireless, he knows it’d be useless; besides, that might require him having to hear one more damn Celestina Warbeck song.

Brianna turns the dial and lands on the frequency, and music fills the room. It’s an old Bowie song. Sirius scrunches his nose. “What’s he playing this for? It’s ancient.”

She snorts at him. “Three years.”

“That’s ancient!”

“Get the stick out your arse, love,” she says. “You worshipped this record as a lad, don’t think I don’t remember. Nearly wore out the bleeding vinyl, you did, it was sweet as anything.”

He crosses his arms. Some days Brianna’s almost as good at mum-type embarrassment as Mrs Potter is, and that’s saying something. “Shut up.”

But she keeps laughing at him. Just to annoy him she starts singing as she wanders back to the counter, loudly and off-key: “ _Love descends on those defenseless_ …”

“God, that’s _cheesy_ ,” Sirius complains. “I’m putting _Horses_ back on.”

“Cheesy, eh? Just wait till you’re older. See how bloody wise that lyric becomes.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t ‘Jesus Christ’ me. Think you’re so clever,” she says. “Just you wait. Ruins everything, you’ll see.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Brianna whirls away from her paperwork to the far side of the counter where, her back to Sirius, she suddenly becomes fascinated with the contents of a box of files.

“Just wait till you’re older,” she mumbles, pawing through the box with abandon. “You’ll see. You’re mates with somebody for a good long time, since you were young and dumb, you work together and you both get your own businesses to deal with and then you’re _co-workers_ and all that rot and, and it’s fine and grown up, and then everything just gets buggered to hell, doesn't it? Fucks it all up, you wait.”

Sirius didn’t know his eyebrows could go this far up his forehead. “Yeah?” he says. “What do you do about it, then? You tell them, right?”

When she finally pops up from the box her expression is a bit hysterical. “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” she says, voice higher than usual, “’cause that’s the adult thing to do, right? You’re both in your fucking thirties now, hypothetically, so you should be able to open your stupid gobs and talk about it, right? But,” she whirls away again, moves the box to the other side of the counter for no discernible reason and sets it down hard, “if you did that you’d fuck it all up, and you don’t wanna do that, do you, so you’re left acting like bleeding teenagers about it, it— it’s a nightmare, Sirius,” she concludes. “Avoid it if you can, and also give a go at not turning into an adult, because that’s a drag too.”

Sirius waits until she goes quiet, and there’s a little stirring inside him that he can’t place. He wonders if it’s understanding. Then he looks her in the face and says, “I suppose what you do in that situation, hypothetically, is talk to your brilliant young protege— assuming you’ve got one of those, hypothetically— and listen to him when he tells you that you really, really, _really_ ought to tell this person the truth.”

From the back of Sirius’ mind, a sour little voice says, _Bloody hypocrite, aren’t you?_

Brianna stares at him for a moment as the song fades out. Over the radio comes Malcolm’s voice: “ _That of course was Mr Bowie, do be on the lookout for his newest next month. I’ve got it on good authority that the charming lady at Drysdell Music’s got the best deal on preorders, don’t know how she does it, must have a really excellent provider_ —”

Brianna’s to the radio in a flash, smashing the ‘off’ switch with such vigour that she nearly knocks the whole thing over. Studiously ignoring Sirius and his smirk, she returns to her pile of preorder forms with an air of no-nonsense.

“I’ve already put one aside for you, don’t worry,” she says, eyes fixed on her work. “We’re backed up till March, but I’ll send you one straight away. I may be the worst mentor yet,” she declares, “but I’ll be damned if my protege waits on Bowie.”

 

***

 

It’s dark in the Lupins’ flat, lit only by the red and green glow of the Christmas tree and the steady flashing of the television set. The sound hasn’t been on for awhile; Sirius put it on mute sometime during _Whistle Test_ (“Bob Harris is a hack anyway,” he muttered) and now a _Coronation Street_ repeat lights the silence. Mum went to bed ages ago. Remus isn’t sure what time it is, but judging by how Sirius is nodding off against his shoulder, it must be late.

Remus knows they can’t fall asleep— if Sirius isn’t back by dawn his parents will flay him— so he tries to get the conversation going again. “What’d you do today?”

With a low and rather canine snuffling sound, Sirius stirs. “What?”

“I asked you what you did today.”

Sirius nestles in further and quite a bit of long dark hair ends up in Remus’ face. “Went to Bri’s.”

“Yeah? How’s she?”

“She and Mal are in love with each other but neither will say anything,” he mumbles, muffled into Remus’ shoulder. “Fucking annoying. She’s gonna get me the new Bowie, though.”

“That’s nice.”

Sirius tilts his head so he can talk unimpeded. He seems to be waking up a bit, but his voice is still croaky with sleep. “What’re you and your mum doing for Christmas?” he asks.

“Oh, it’ll be quiet round here. You know us. She’s still teaching me how to drive, I’m eligible for my provisional now. And your lot?”

“Hope it’ll be quiet,” Sirius says. “Probably not, though. Whole stupid lot of them.”

“Your cousins?”

“And their men. Narcissa’s got a fiancé now, biggest prat alive. He was a prefect when we were kids.”

“We’re still kids, you know.”

“When we were first years, then, smart guy. Used to give me and James detentions for breathing.”

In spite of himself, Remus smiles. “Among other things, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, well. And Bella’s husband Rodolphus is the dumbest man I’ve ever met. Knock on his head, you’d get an echo.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Yeah, well.” Sirius yawns expansively, then turns his face back into Remus’ collar. “That’s the Blacks. Unfortunate.”

He doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

Sirius makes a noncommittal sound. He seems to be falling asleep again.

“Was it always so bad?”

That stirs him. Blinking up at Remus, Sirius says, “What sort of question’s that?”

“I’m sorry,” Remus says honestly. It was rather tactless. “I’m— I was just trying to keep you awake.”

“Mm, can’t stand to be without me?”

The thought of losing the warm presence of Sirius, nestled against his body in the dark, does in fact make Remus’ heart ache, but Sirius shouldn’t know that. “If you aren’t back in the morning, your mum—”

“Joke, Moony.” He yawns again. His eyes slide shut as he shifts off of Remus’ shoulder and slumps back against the sofa. He murmurs, “No.”

“Sorry?”

“It wasn’t always so bad.” The soft, continuous flash of the television washes the side of his face with light, faint against the sleepy darkness. Sirius’ eyes are still closed; his voice is a low hum, his lips hardly move at all. He could be mistaken for sleep-talking by anyone who isn’t Remus, who knows what that sounds like.

“I mean, it was. But when you’re really young it doesn’t matter. Don’t care that the things they believe are fucked up, because most often it doesn’t come up at family Christmas, what they believe, and when it does it doesn’t matter so much. But then,” he says, “you get to be old enough that you care. Probably about ten when that happened.”

“That’s young.”

“Mm?”

“I mean, most people don’t have divisive social ideals at ten.”

“Dromeda was eighteen, taught me plenty. Besides...” He stretches a bit, cracks his neck; Remus watches the tendons move and throw deep shadows over the familiar topography of him, the hills and hollows of throat and jaw. He is so incredibly lovely. “It wasn’t so…well-formed as all that. I just knew that they fancied themselves like royalty and it was bollocks. I was the heir so it was worse, they wanted me to be…something for them. I dunno. Tried to make me a prince. I didn’t want it.”

The light from _Coronation Street_ darkens. A night scene, maybe. Now it’s only the dull glow from the Christmas tree, a mottled flush of red and green, that outlines his profile in the dark.

Maybe it’s the late hour or the way he’s always found Sirius’ voice soothing, but Remus himself feels half-asleep, full of half-thoughts that make half-sense. The light around Sirius flickers, changes colour. He thinks about light, the different sorts of light, people who are like different sorts of light, and Remus, who knows his Greek, wonders if Sirius’ parents knew what they were doing when they named him ‘burning’.

“I do have good memories,” Sirius murmurs. “But I’ve got nothing to do with them now. Don’t think of them anymore.”

“We’re both going to fall asleep,” Remus says. He yawns and the room swims. He looks around for the remote control. “I’m going to put the sound on.”

Sirius gives a quiet snort. “Dunno why you think that’ll help. Show’s dead boring.”

The volume comes on low and indistinct. Even as Remus says, “You really ought to get home,” he twines his arm around Sirius, gathers him to his side, presses the comforting weight of him close. Remus doesn’t try to stop himself; he lets the warmth and intimacy wrap itself around his heart and squeeze.

Sirius exhales a soft laugh. “Whatever you say.”

It’s like that for a while. Something is happening on the television. Neither know or care what. The end credits roll eventually, the show is replaced by a grey-suited BBC announcer. Sirius asks, “Do I still sleep-talk?”

“Sometimes,” Remus answers. “Not as much as you did when we were kids.”

“We’re still kids, you know.”

“Good one.”

“Set me up.”

The announcer finishes the sign-off and goes away. The Earth logo spins; “God Save the Queen” plays quietly. The screen dissolves into static, flushing the room with snowy light and white noise.

“It must be well past midnight,” Remus says.

Sirius’ breathing is slow.“Mm.”

They watch the static.

“You know, sometimes I wonder how we regularly shared beds for two years without the other two noticing,” Remus says.

“They don’t notice much.”

“Clearly.”

“Could keep a basilisk under James’ bed and he wouldn’t notice.”

“We’re lucky there, I suppose.” Remus pauses for a second before he asks his next question. He’s been wondering for a long time but he’s never much wanted to hear the answer. He’s seldom brave enough to think about it. Finally he says, quiet in his own ears, “What if they find out?”

He doesn’t need to specify. Sirius hums thoughtfully, and Remus feels the vibration of it around his collarbone.

“They won’t find out.”

His eyelids are heavy; the television and its static blur as his vision slips out of focus, melts into the soft, filmy darkness. Surrounded by warmth and white noise, Remus gives up staying awake.

 

***

 

It’s still dark when Sirius wakes up. He can just see the window from the funny angle he’s lying in: pressed against Remus, who’s in a sort of half-sprawl against the arm of the sofa. They must’ve tipped over while they slept. Reluctantly, he untwines himself from Remus’ arms. It’s lucky, Sirius tells himself, that he happened to wake early enough to sneak home before his parents find him missing.

Not that he feels lucky, leaving the cozy flat behind. London in December isn’t exactly balmy to begin with, but trudging miles between Underground stations in the murky, starless dark is a new level of miserable. Sirius’ hands and feet have gone numb by the time he reaches his street in Islington. He rounds the corner, a hazy suggestion of sunrise in a far corner of the blue-black sky, and approaches the row of houses. He isn’t expecting to see somebody else in front of his door.

“ _Reg?_ ”

Regulus whips around, face flushed with cold and eyes wide with shock. “What’re you doing out here?”

“What’re _you_ doing out here?”

“The door’s locked.”

“What’re you doing outside it in the first place, idiot?”

“Would you keep your voice down?” Regulus hisses. “You’ll wake the whole block.”

Sirius runs up to the door, pulling his coat tighter around himself as he goes. He stands over Regulus and growls, “You were sneaking back in, weren’t you?”

“So were you.”

“Where were you?”

“Where were _you_?”

“If you don’t tell me I’ll tell Mum and Dad on you.”

“And I’ll tell Mum and Dad on you back, won’t I?”

Sirius crosses his arms. “I’m the oldest.”

“So?”

“So that means you’ve got to tell and I haven’t.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes it does, because it’s not dangerous for me to be walking round at night, I’m not tiny and shrimpy like you and I’m not so easily kidnapped.”

“I am not easily kidnapped!” Regulus snaps, his face flushing deeper.

“Yes you are, you’re the size of a bowtruckle and half as tough.”

“I’m tough! And I don’t care how tall I am, I’m the perfect build for a Seeker, everybody says so. I’m a shoo-in once Parkinson graduates this year, everybody says.”

“Who cares?”

“You’re just jealous because you’d fall off a broom if you ever tried.”

“Ooooh, you’ve really hurt my feelings now.” Sirius rolls his eyes. “Quidditch is for ponces.”

“Potter plays Quidditch.”

“Potter’s a ponce.”

“You— you—” Regulus is nice and riled up now. It’s good fun; sort of like watching a kitten get angry. “You’re a useless pretty boy who never does anything!”

“Am I?” Sirius says, raising his eyebrows. He nods to himself. “Far out, just what I was going for.”

“All you're good for is flipping your hair!” Regulus hisses. It usually takes longer than this to wind him up; Sirius gives himself an internal pat on the back. “You and your friends playing mean jokes, hexing people for fun, people who never did anything to you— I’m doing important things, with important people, I just came from a meeting full of them! We’re doingthings!”

For a stubborn few seconds it doesn’t sink in. Sirius blinks. Then he says, lower this time, “Where were you?”

Regulus turns to the door and taps it repeatedly with his wand. “It won’t open, I don’t know why, it’s never been locked before.”

Sirius sees red. He grabs Regulus by the back of his collar, pushes him forward until his forehead hits the wood with a sharp _thunk_. Regulus gives a cry of surprise; Sirius reels him back just enough to shove him face-first into the door again.

“Knock it off, knock it off!”

“Regulus Arcturus, you tell me where the bloody hell you were!”

“They’re good people!” Regulus says, muffled. “They’re trying to help wizards everywhere! If you would give it a chance, if you’d stop listening to all the lies your blood-traitor friends tell you, you’d see that!”

“What happens when I tell Mum and Dad, huh?”

“They’ll be proud of me! Because I’m doing something good f—” He cuts off with another yelp and wooden _thunk_ as Sirius, who knows the brat’s right, pushes him again.

“The authorities, then. I’ll turn you in to the Ministry, they’ll arrest you and everything. How fun will Azkaban be without your slimy mates to keep you company, d’you think?”

“They’re not sending me anywhere, I’m too young! Besides,” Regulus continues, fighting to catch his breath with his face smashed against the door, “they haven’t got anything on me, I’m not a member, I’m not allowed to officially join until I’m fifteen.”

Through gritted teeth Sirius snarls, “Bully for you,” pulls Regulus back, and shoves him even harder. The hollow sound of head-to-door is louder this time and Regulus actually whimpers, because he’s a whingey baby in addition to being the biggest stupidest idiot on the whole face of the fucking planet, and Sirius tastes metal.

“You think they care about you?” he growls. Regulus wriggles around, trying to free himself, but Sirius holds him easily. He’s so angry he could spit fire, his breath feels hot in his throat and he hears his own heartbeat pound in his ears, but the clench and heave in his chest feels more like desperation than anything else as he says, “They only bothered recruiting you because you’re a gullible little kid with rich parents— easily fooled, easily disposed of— and you’ve got the bollocks to say you’re doing something _good!_ ”

“You don’t know anything!” Regulus’ voice cracks up an octave or two and Sirius hasn’t got time to make fun of him before he continues: “You weren’t there but I was, I heard him— the one everybody talks about, everybody in the papers and everywhere, the leader, he spoke to us, I heard what he’s got to say and—”

Sirius snorts. The clenching, lurching thing in his chest threatens to rip him in half. “Oh yeah, sure. What’s his name then, genius?”

“I’m not telling you!”

“Because you’re a dirty little liar who doesn’t know the name, same as everybody else!” Sirius bites out. “If the bloody government can’t even figure out who he is then there’s no way in hell that—”

“His followers know it, people who are loyal, he tells them! I know it because I’m special, because I’m not a traitor like you or Andr—”

“ _Shut your mouth!_ ”

“I’ll say what I like about blood traitors,” Regulus pants. “They’re worse than Mudbloods and I’ll say what I please because I know the truth, I know it because I met him!”

“ _Liar!_ ”

The blood hammering in Sirius’ head is too loud to let him think— it’s almost involuntary, the way he yanks Regulus back by the collar yet again. So is the way he freezes, mid-push, when Regulus blurts out, “Voldemort! Lord Voldemort, it’s what they call him!”

The fire in Sirius’ throat goes out. His hand slackens on Regulus’ collar without his thinking about it, without thinking about anything. Regulus slips out of his grip and jumps away from the door, grimaces, rubs his forehead.

Sirius feels his feet move, wandering out onto the pavement. He looks out over the empty street. The yellow bruise of morning on the horizon is a little wider, maybe. The streetlamp in the derelict square has gone out. He stands there for a second, breath fogging in front of him, before turning around again. As he shoves his hands into his pockets Sirius says, because he can think of nothing else to say: “He’s French?”

Regulus shakes his head. “Don’t think it’s a surname. Reckon he made it up.”

Sirius snorts. “Bit heavy-handed, isn’t it, for a bloke who wants everybody to think he’s immortal.”

“What’s ‘heavy-handed’ mean?”

“Never mind.” He looks down, watching his shoe as he scuffs at the sidewalk. “What’s he look like?”

“Er.” It takes a second for Regulus to answer. “Weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Like…I can’t tell how old he is. And his…skin is…funny.”

“His skin is funny.”

“Shut up, I dunno.”

Both of them jump at the sound of the door creaking open. For a disorienting second Sirius thinks it opened by itself before he looks down and sees, of all bloody people, Kreacher.

“Kreacher heard voices,” he croaks.

“Thank Merlin,” Regulus says. He crouches down a bit.  “Thank you so much, Kreacher, you’re a real life-saver. We were locked out, I don’t know how the—”

“Move,” Sirius grunts, shoving past them both. He hears a thud that might be Kreacher being knocked to the floor but he doesn’t turn round to look, going straight for the stairs. A grip on his arm stops him.

“Hang on, I—”

He knocks Regulus’ hand away, turning and wishing very much for his warm bed. A deep exhaustion has settled over him. “What?”

Regulus opens his mouth, closes it. “We were friends, before,” he says.

Sirius wants to kill him. “A thousand years ago.” He makes for the stairs again. “I’m going to bed.”

“Wait, you— _Dissendium_ , the password’s _Dissendium_.”

Sirius stops, looks around again. He very much wants to kill him. “I…what?”

“It’s…password,” Regulus mumbles. “ _Dissendium_ , that’s what it is. Potter hit the right statue but he didn’t say _Dissendium_ , you’ve got to say _Dissendium_.”

Sirius stares at him blankly and waits for him to make sense, but it doesn’t happen. He digs the heel of his hand into the bridge of his nose, following the dull ache behind his eyes. “Shout nonsense at somebody else. I’m tired, I’m going to bed.” He turns around and leaves Regulus in the dark foyer.

He takes the stairs two at a time. He gets to his room, kicks the door shut behind him, and drops onto his bed. He’s asleep before he can take his shoes off.

 

***

 

“I don’t understand,” James’ mum says to him on Boxing Day. “Why’ve you got to go back early?”

“Because I’ve got to study,” James answers.

“Why can’t you study here?”

“Because learning,” he says.

“What,” she says.

“C’mon, pleeeeease?” he wheedles. “The others are Flooing back on New Year’s Eve, I can’t leave them unattended! What’ll they do without my guidance, eh?”

That point doesn’t sway her but something eventually does, and James successfully gets back in time for the new moon on the night of January first. In the Shrieking Shack he, Sirius, and Peter do their incantations on the potion while Remus watches. When that’s done, the four of them settle in for what promises to be a great little celebration: they sit on the dusty floor and mangled furniture, passing a joint around while the cauldron glows from the grate.

“You lot do realise,” Sirius says, stretched out on the floor with his legs across Remus’ lap, “how many times we’ve done this ritual now?”

Fresh excitement leaps up in James’ chest. He hasn’t forgotten— he’s been counting down the weeks. Peter seems to be more surprised, though, given the way he chokes and coughs up smoke. “Wait,” he rasps, eyes streaming. “How many?”

A slow grin sprawls over Sirius’ face. He raises his eyebrows. “Four.”

“I hadn’t realised! Then…then that means…” Peter’s eyes, still red and wet, go wide. “When’s the next new moon again?”

“Thirty-first,” Remus says. He’s staring at his feet. “You’ll do the ritual one more time, and then—”

James can’t contain himself any longer; he leaps up from the sofa, punhes the air with both fists, and cries, “And then Project Animagus is COMPLETE!” He launches into a victory dance, Sirius whoops and cheers, Peter applauds— and Remus cuts them off.

“And _then_ ,” he says firmly, “we’ll double-check all the research and make sure that everything’s exactly as it should be before we do the last step.” Remus casts a glance over at the grate, where the cauldron is emitting greenish light. “The potion should be bright blue by then; that’s the only way we’ll know you’ve done all the spellwork correctly. If it isn’t— if it’s even _slightly_ off when you drink it and try to transform— it could kill you. Nobody’s doing anything unless it’s perfect.”

James, a little miffed about having his victory dance interrupted, waves him off. “It will be, don’t worry.”

“You’ve got no way of knowing that. There’s no guarantee that you lot haven’t been doing it wrong this whole time.”

“Do try to rein in all that faith in us, mate, it’s getting over the top.”

“I’m just being realistic. You know why it’s illegal to do this spell unmonitored.”

“Because the government’s full of pansies and Ravenclaws,” says Sirius. He receives James’ high five.

“Because people die doing it!”

James laughs. “Ah, but that’s the best part! You know nothing’s fun for me unless there’s a chance I might die doing it.”

“It’s not fun for me.”

James blows a raspberry as he falls dramatically back to the sofa. Sirius and Peter laugh, Remus doesn’t. “You’re really bumming my high. This is a _celebration_ , remember?”

“Of what?”

James rolls his eyes. He can’t believe he’s got such boring friends. Gesturing expansively at nothing in particular, he cries, “A new year! New opportunities, new memories, new creative hexes on Slytherins and prefects! Pass that over, Wormtail.” He accepts the offered joint, takes a drag, rakes a hand through his hair, rearranges the drape of his limbs over the mutilated sofa, and declares, “Lads, I’ve an idea. I think we ought to go round and take turns saying our personal best bits of 1975. Because, you know, Old Lane Sign, and such.”

“Auld Lang Syne,” Peter says.

“Exactly. We should be thankful for the…the bounty this last year has brought us, and all that.”

“You just wanna brag about your girlfriend,” Sirius says.

“I can brag about my girlfriend any old time, spoilsport.” Sirius makes a terribly ungentlemanly gesture at him; James picks up his wand and shoots sparks in his direction. “I’m only suggesting we, y’know, appreciate the good times. Look back fondly on our memories, and the old acquaintances we forgot and the Auld Langs we Syned, whatever.”

“Still just gonna brag about your girlfriend, though,” Sirius says

“I’ll go first,” James says. He gathers his thoughts, clears his throat, and announces, “In the year nineteen hundred and seventy-five I, James Warren Bhargava Potter the First, embarked on the most _wicked_ dangerous adventure of a spell, had the most legendary birthday party ever, gave that one Hufflepuff prefect with the annoying face a bunch of boils no fewer than six times, went to Italy and managed to have fun even though there was this one poncy inbred who followed me around—” Sirius makes a face and an inarticulate noise like _nyuuh_ , both of which James ignores, “—lit Severus Snape on fire, risked certain death and expulsion at every turn, _and_ got the best girlfriend in the known universe, who's way cool and fit and funny and won us the Cup by almost knocking Harvey Parkinson off his broom.”

“Told you,” mumbles Sirius.

“Your turn, Wormy,” James says. He cranes over his shoulder to hand off the joint to Peter with a flourish. “The celebratory torch.”

Peter takes a pull, looking thoughtful. “Er.” He coughs again. “Alright. Er. In 1975 I helped plan a really excellent surprise party, got an ‘Acceptable’ on McGonagall’s final exam, outran Peeves _twice_ , convinced Tesla to stop chewing holes in my socks, got top marks in our year for Arithmancy, and,” he looks up, smiling at Remus, “didn’t mess up the plan to help Remus.”

James claps. “Well said, sir, well said. Good show. Padfoot, your go.”

Peter passes the joint to Sirius, who pushes himself up onto his elbows to receive it. He relights it with his wand, smokes lazily for a moment (he always holds it like a cigarette, the insufferable nonce) and says, “This year I nearly succeeded in drowning James Potter. I convinced Rodney Stebbins that bubotuber pus is great for a stomachache, gave a presentation in Potions high as a kite without Slughorn noticing, bought _Horses_ a week before the rest of the country, planted a shitload of doxy eggs in the Slytherin Quidditch changing rooms, jumped off a staircase, made Madam Rosmerta laugh so hard she spilled about a gallon of gillywater on Bertha Jorkins—”

“Got a gallon of gillywater spilled on Bertha Jorkins,” Remus adds. James hums in agreement.

“—got closer to convincing Brianna to let me ride her motorbike—”

James snorts. “She said she’d _maybe_ consider _possibly_ letting you turn the engine on for your sixteenth birthday.”

“—and I, too, set Severus Snape on fire,” Sirius concludes. He leans up to hand the joint to Remus, looks at him with eyebrows raised, and says, “There was some other stuff, too.”

Remus pauses for a long time when it’s his turn. Finally he says in a careful, measured voice: “This year I consistently paid attention in History of Magic, read a lot of books, became the worst prefect in Hogwarts history…” He smiles to himself. “Got busted out of the hospital wing. Did several dozen stupid things. Witnessed firsthand the lengths to which my friends will go for me.”

“That’s beautiful, Moony,” Sirius says solemnly. “Pete, fetch me my hanky, lest my mascara run.”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” Remus says. He aims a kick at Sirius and misses; Sirius cackles.

“Good stuff, good stuff,” James says. He makes to sit up, quickly decides that it’s too much work, and stays horizontal while he lifts an invisible glass in the air. He feels proud and content, the world is warm and fuzzy around the edges, and James feels it isn’t much to ask at all when he says, “To 1976, gentlemen— may it be our best yet.”

 

***

 

The last Sunday in January is cold but bright, with the ceiling of the Great Hall a pale blue overhead as Sirius sits doing the crossword. Peter pores over his History of Magic textbook; James has his wand pointed across the room, bewitching pieces of bacon to hurl themselves at Snape’s face. Carlos rolls around by the sausages, humming benignly.

“Wanna join the cause, Padfoot?” James asks, not taking his eyes off his increasingly irritable target.

“Nah, his face is greasy enough as is,” Sirius says. “Anybody seen Remus?”

“He was gone when I got up,” Peter says.

“Maybe he’s doing prefectly things,” James speculates. Two bacon strips slap Snape in the face at once; James makes a victorious sound.

“At ten in the morning?”

“Maybe it’s a special mission,” James says.

“What is it you think prefects do, exactly?” Peter asks.

“I dunno. Steal jewels. Apprehend criminals.”

The post arrives and the subject changes, but Sirius reckons he’s got an idea where Remus is. He proves himself right a while later when, after a quick trip up to the dormitory, he opens the mirror in the fourth floor corridor and slides down into the secret passageway. Remus sits against the wall with a book in his lap, reading by the light of a little glass jar full of blue flames which bobs in the air above him. The tiny windows near the ceiling let in a few rays of weak winter sun, mixing dreamily with the blue firelight on the stone chamber walls.

Sirius smiles. “Leaf out of Wormtail’s book?”

Dashing all Sirius’ hopes of having caught him unawares, Remus glances up, unsurprised. “The jars were a stroke of genius. We don’t give him enough credit.”

“Nobody’s seen you all morning. Prongs reckoned you were doing secret prefect espionage.”

He hums. “Needed someplace they wouldn’t be underfoot.”

With a gesture around, Sirius says, “Is rather the point of this place.” He drops his bag, bats the floating jar out of the way, and collapses, draping himself against Remus’ side and twining their legs. Remus’ hand goes reflexively to card through Sirius’ hair.

This has been the norm for some months now, ever since they found this place. Sirius’ mind has shorthanded it to ‘their place’, which is cheesy but accurate. Only some of the moments of stolen time down here are spent snogging (you can only do that for so long, really); sometimes they’ll come down here just for the ease of sitting around without having to play it straight for James and Peter. They talk or play cards or smoke or revise— Remus revises, anyway— or any of the other normal stuff they’d usually do in the common room, but with the added bonus of being able to hang all over each other while they do it. Their place has a way of making Remus physically incapable of keeping his hands out of Sirius’ hair, which is one of its best qualities as far as Sirius is concerned.

Every now and then Sirius feels guilty for keeping the place a secret from James, who would feel the discovery of a bona fide Hogwarts secret passageway like a combination of Christmas, his birthday, and Quidditch finals all rolled into one. It’s betrayal. He and Remus haven’t even followed the thing to see where it leads, which James would find a shameful waste.

 _Yeah, but James can lie around with his girlfriend anywhere he wants_ , Sirius thinks. _He hasn’t got to hide underground to touch her._

 _So?_ he argues at himself. _Remus sure isn’t a girlfriend, now is he?_ No, they’ve been over this: it isn’t anything. Remus is just… his mate who likes to snog him. And play with his hair. Who Sirius has fancied for well over four years.

This train of thought always makes Sirius want to punch himself in the face.

He looks over at the book in Remus’ lap. “Animagus stuff? Why?”

Remus’ hand stills in his hair for a second. “Just going over things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah,” Remus says. “Hopefully you lot’ve forgotten a step someplace.”

“You know us better than that.”

“I do. You’re idiots, but you’re thorough idiots.”

“Would you quit worrying? It’s annoying.”

There’s a steely edge to the look Remus shoots him. “You three are risking painful, messy deaths this Saturday. I’ll worry as much as I please.”

Sirius shrugs the shoulder that isn’t slumped into Remus’ side. “Whatever.” He un-slumps himself and reaches for his bag. “Here, look what I’ve got.”

Remus doesn’t look up. “What.”

“Just came in the post.” With a flourish Sirius pulls out the black and white record sleeve. “Bri said she’d send me the new Bowie when it came out and she did, look.”

“I don’t know how her shop makes any money.”

“Paid her over Christmas, wise arse. You wanna listen or not?”

“Unless you’ve got a record player hidden on your person, I don’t know how you think we’d go about it.”

“You said I couldn’t work out the Undetectable Extension Charm.”

“It’s N.E.W.T. level.” His eyes dart to Sirius’ bag. “You didn’t actually—”

“Wanna bet?” says Sirius, grinning as he hefts out the magicked turntable.

Remus addresses the ceiling with his mumble of, “Entirely predictable.” He nods. “Sure, put it on.”

He does, and there’s a measure of silence after he sets the needle. As he lounges back into Remus’ side again, a soft whirring starts to fill the echoey stone chamber. Sirius settles back to listen, full of anticipation. He’s been excited to hear this one since Brianna brought it up that day in the shop over Christmas hols.

That thought makes Sirius frown to himself; he forgot about that day. He wonders if she and Malcolm have stopped acting like twelve year olds yet, seeing as Sirius did pretty much up and tell her that Mal’s had a big dumb crush on her since the dawn of time. He hopes one of them has grown some bollocks and admitted it.

A voice in his mind that sounds suspiciously like Lily Evans says, _Pretty cowardly, not owning up to your feelings_.

It’s right. He’s got to say something, hasn’t he?

He looks at Remus, watches his brown eyes as they trace a page and the focused set of his frown, and tells himself that it’s just a matter of talking. Saying some words. It shouldn’t be this big of a deal and it definitely shouldn’t be making his heart pound and his palms sweat as if he’s about to fight a dragon with his bare hands. It’s downright embarrassing. And Sirius knows that there’s nothing else to do when you’re afraid than to stop thinking and just _act_ , to catch your fear off-guard by shoving yourself into the dragon’s lair, hurling yourself over the edge of the cliff, forcing some words, any words, out of your mouth and into the air where you can’t take them back and dealing with whatever consequences come. Acting faster than the fear-- that's all bravery is, really.

He flings out: “I’ve been a twat.”

Remus looks up from the page. “Pardon?”

“Before the holidays, when I tried to pretend as if this,” Sirius waves a hand between them, a frantic little attempt at the dangerous abstraction of _this_ , “didn’t matter to me, I acted as though I’ve just been snogging you all this time out of, I dunno, boredom? I don’t know, I’ve no idea what I was even pretending to do.” He lets the words tumble out. “It was all because I didn’t want to— to make it weird, or freak you out, or have you tell me that, y’know, sorry, it’s not like that for you, so—”

Remus cuts in, politely inquisitive: “Sorry, what’re you on about?”

“I’m— _mad_ for you,” Sirius says, fast, before he can think better of it. Don’t think, just speak. “I’m sorry if it makes things weird, I know you said that this,” the euphemistically loaded hand wave again, _This_ , “isn’t anything, and that’s the way you prefer it, so I’m absolutely cocking up everything right now, but I can’t keep acting as though I don’t proper adore you, I had to tell you the truth.”

Remus doesn’t appear to have blinked. “Ah.”

If Sirius doesn’t keep talking, he’ll lose it. “In my defense, this really should not be news at all. Is this news? I assume from the expression on your face that this is news, but I reckon it shouldn’t have been. I hang out and cuddle with you down here all the time, you might’ve gathered.”

“Why bother telling me at all, then, if you assume I’d’ve _gathered?_ ” Remus imitates Sirius’ accent on ‘gathered’, the way a’s sometimes turn into e’s if he’s not careful (and he’s not careful right now, he’s bloody nervous) because Remus is an unbearable tosser.

“Because it’s been ages of this—” and the hand wave is more like a broad sweep this time, _This_ , grand in scale, “—and neither of us have bothered to talk about what it is we’re up to. I figured somebody’d better bring it up, and you needed to know all the facts first.”

Remus still hasn’t blinked. “The facts being…”

“I fancy you, stupid.”

“Ah,” Remus says again.

“I mean, you already knew that.”

“No I didn’t,” says Remus. “I very much did not know that.”

“Yeah you did, I told you that, I specifically remember telling you I fancied you— at James’ party last year, under the Astronomy Tower, remember?”

When Remus finally blinks he does so several times. “Yes, I suppose you did, but I didn’t know how literally you meant it.”

“What’s to be literal about, either you do or you don’t.”

“Well, now, you could’ve meant that you thought I was attractive and liked kissing me,” Remus argues, and he’s got his prefect voice on, like he’s debating with Professor Kettleburn that sorry, sir, I’m fairly certain hinkypunks are more commonly found in wetland habitats so categorising them with grassland lesser-demons doesn’t seem right to me, Merlin’s _pants_ he’s unbearable, “but now you’re saying you’re mad for me, which is new information entirely, you definitely haven’t mentioned that.”

“Well, now I have. I know that wrecks everything, but, well. There you have it.”

Remus stares at him, gaping.

Sirius raises his eyebrows. “Sorry, are you broken?”

“I,” Remus says slowly, “think there’s been a failure of communication.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t,” Remus says. “It doesn’t wreck everything.”

The whirring from the record player dissipates into a long note of feedback, which then gives way to some heavy, ominous-sounding isolated notes and a baseline like impending doom, which is not helping Sirius’ nerves. Remus doesn’t elaborate, and Sirius says, “Explain.”

He swallows. “I suspect we’ve been misunderstanding each other. I was under the impression it was obvious where I stood on this, but—”

“Stop deflecting by acting like I’m stupid, you always do that.”

“I do not.”

“It’s been your bag since you were a kid. Remus Lupin, Master Deflector,” he says, holding his hands up like he’s reading it in lights on a marquee. Then Sirius turns so he’s looking at him head-on and says, “Tell me the truth, would you? All of it, even if it hurts my feelings. Hurt my feelings, alright? I don’t mind. Don’t try to, to _rhetoric_ your way out of saying what you mean, do your House proud and— and— and vomit up some words without thinking, that’s the Gryffindor way!”

Remus blurts, “I like so you much it makes my insides hurt.”

Very vividly, Sirius remembers the sensation of being thrown backwards by a firework exploding in his face. Going on a year ago, that was. “Oh,” he says.

“I’m not sure when it happened, I’ve tried tracing it back but if there was a specific moment that it started I can’t remember it.” Remus’ eyes are fixed stubbornly forward and not at Sirius. “I think it started to shift during third year, but I ignored it for a long time.”

“You’re great at ignoring things, they should have competitions for it, the Ignoring World Cup,” Sirius says. He’s got no fucking clue what he’s saying. “You’d win every year, you’d be famous and Prongs would be jealous.”

“Yeah. I ignored it, but then I stopped ignoring it at some point during fourth year, which you know— you saw what happened with the potion at the Three Broomsticks, that gave me away entirely.”

“The potion wasn’t expired, then?”

Finally Remus looks at him. The music chugs along instrumentally, building, building. With the air of explaining something very simple and very important to somebody very thick, he says, “Of _course_ it wasn’t expired.”

“Oh,” Sirius says.

“And then when we started this…well, since I’d already known you were gay for a while, naturally I—”

A surprised splutter breaks out of Sirius. “How did you know?”

“Remember when James got Carlos?”

“Yeah?”

“Veela. They only work if you fancy women, and according to the story you lot told she couldn’t make you do a damn thing.”

Sirius bursts out laughing. “Merlin’s tits, are you joking?” He laughs so hard it echoes in the stone chamber, mingling with the bassline. “My homosexual superpower. Oh my god, that’s spectacular.”

“All this time I’ve been operating under the assumption that you went along with the whole thing because your options are, as it were, limited,” Remus continues. To the untrained eye he’s put together as ever, but Sirius can detect the manic edge creeping into the familiar cadence of his speech, his stiffening posture. “Even if there are other gay people around— statistically likely, yes, but— you’d have no way of knowing who they are and it’s too dangerous to simply _ask_ , so naturally you’d go with whichever opportunity presented itself or, as it were, hauled you out onto a parapet and attacked you.”

There’s a tonal shift from the record player as David Bowie starts singing. The corners of Sirius’ mouth twitch as he fights back a laugh. “‘As it were’,” he says.

“What?”

“This all makes me sound a bit of a floozy,” Sirius says, losing the battle against his own grin. “What sort of girl do you take me for, Moony?”

“It was a logical assumption,” Remus says desperately. “I know you’ve encountered a mirror, considering how vain you are about your hair—”

“Uncalled for.”

“—so you realise that somebody like you, if given a wider pool of options, would not normally pick somebody like me, right? I mean, you do appreciate that I’m an unusual choice?”

“What?”

“Don’t be dense, Sirius.”

“Don’t _don’t be dense, Sirius_ me.”

“I’m not saying I’m hideous, just that I’m…” Remus makes a face. “Well, discounting the obvious of what I am. Even besides _that_ , I’m average-looking and quiet—”

Sirius snorts. “You are not quiet.”

“—and, you know. Prefectly. You’re all…” He gestures vaguely at Sirius, visibly struggles to finish the sentence for a moment, then gives up. “You know what I mean.”

“So, so you thought…” Sirius is having trouble inserting himself into this new reality. “All these months you thought I’d been thinking, ‘ah, well, nobody else round here is as enormously gay as myself, guess Moony’ll have to do’?”

“What were _you_ thinking, then?” Remus shoots back. “That I pulled you away and snogged you that night just for the hell of it?”

“I thought you were, I dunno, passing time! Experimenting!”

“I’m the one who consistently throws cold water over things and you thought I was _experimenting?_ If I was only looking to try it out with a bloke we would’ve had sex months ago, don’t you think?”

Sirius will not go red, god damn it, he _refuses_. He probably does anyway. “Can’t believe you thought I was just being opportunistic. Real flattering, Moony.”

“And you thought I was just being bicurious.”

“Touché.”

“You know,” Remus says, thoughtful, “I think we might both be idiots.”

“Really, how did you not know?” Sirius says. He still can’t fathom it. “I’ve only had the world’s hugest crush on you since we met.”

Remus makes a face like he’s swallowed his tongue. “Y— _what?_ ”

“Well, yeah!” he says. “Or at least I reckon I did, took me a bit to make the connection. I didn’t even know what being gay was at first, and it was a little while before I worked out why I always wanted to impress you, but, well.” Sirius glances over at the record player. “What d’you reckon ‘flashing no colour’ means? Drugs? Probably something to do with drugs.”

For a long moment neither of them says anything. The music echoes through the chamber, and Remus stares into space, wide-eyed, doing that head tilt thing he does when he’s working something out. Finally, he breathes, “Oh.”

Sirius isn’t sure what to do, so he keeps talking. “Sometimes when I couldn’t fall asleep I’d fake sleep-talking just so you’d come hang out with me.” He thinks back on his younger self with fondness. The poor kid was so obvious. “I’d say for a while there it was fake maybe…oh, thirty percent of the time.”

“Crafty.”

“I was a clever little shit, yeah.”

Remus continues to stare at nothing. He appears to be thinking very hard, or perhaps his brain has short-circuited. With an air of discovery, he says, “You hated Jeanette.”

“Nonsense, I adore Jeanette! She’s a very sweet girl and she brought fireworks to James’ party.”

“You _hated_ her.” A smile pulls at Remus’ mouth, apprehension dawning on his face. “You sicced a firecrab on her.”

“I was having a laugh!” Sirius cries. “I thought the cage was locked! And she was fine, her sleeve was just a bit singed, that was all.”

But Remus isn’t listening. He shakes his head, and he looks happier than Sirius has seen him in a long time. Maybe ever.

“I can’t believe it.” As though determined to look anywhere but at Sirius, he grins up at the jar floating gently overhead, casting his face in dappled blue light. Sirius’ heart hurts. “This whole time,” Remus says. He breathes out a small, private laugh. “All these years…”

“Yeah, well. Not like I ever imagined anything could come of it," Sirius says. "Most of the time I was just waiting for it to go away, back then.”

Finally Remus looks away from the blue fire and meets Sirius’ eyes, and his smile has always been one of Sirius’ very favourite things in the world, but it’s especially so right now. “What do you think now, then?”

“I’m a bit more hopeful, aren’t I?”

There’s a drum fill from the record player, and a soaring tempo change. When it picks up Sirius feels it in his chest, compounded with the sensation he was dealing with already of his whole body thrumming like somebody’s transfigured him into a motorbike engine, and then that just gets doubled when Remus tosses his book away and grabs him by both sides of his face and kisses him. He’s kissed Remus about a thousand times by now, and it shouldn’t make him feel as though he’s just saved the whole bloody world, but, well. He swings a leg over Remus’ knees and crawls into his lap and cranes his neck down and Remus kisses him harder, hands in his hair and hands on his back and wherever else they can tighten around him, hold him closer. Sirius thinks he might implode under the weight of his own happiness; the voice from the turntable sings _Wonder who, wonder who, wonder when?_

In later years when Sirius is asked about his favourite Bowie album he will always end up naming this one, as a matter of reflex, without especially remembering why.

 

***


	15. station to station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Suppose I'm not the best suitor. Being half-blood. And a werewolf. And male."
> 
> "Yeah, I suppose not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't wait until September 1st on purpose to post the last chapter of Part 1, but it seems appropriate enough.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's stuck with atyd all this time. Will be back very soon with Part 2.

***

 

“It’s not right.”

Peter’s suddenly able to breathe again when James leaves squeezing the air out of him. Now James whirls round to Remus, beaming and distracted, raking a hand through his hair. Sirius continues shouting and jumping up and down on the Shack’s already ravaged sofa, Peter catches his breath, and James says, “What?”

“It’s not right,” Remus repeats, peering into the cauldron. “‘Deep blue’. That’s not deep blue, it’s still quite green.”

Frowning, James joins him at the hearth and looks in. He snorts. “Get your eyes checked, mate. It’s blue.”

“Yes,” Remus explains, his voice gone tight, “but it’s not the right shade, it’s too green.”

“You have seen the colour green before, right?”

“I’m not saying it’s _green_ green, I’m—”

“It’s sort of…” Peter gets to his feet, looks in. “…Turquoise.”

“Jesus, Wormtail.” Sirius rolls his eyes. “ _‘Turquoise’_. It’s bloody blue.”

Remus turns around from the hearth and— pleasantly, politely— says, “But it’s not the right blue, and it behooves us to pay attention to detail when risking your gruesome deaths.”

Sirius stomps down from the couch, landing his feet so hard the rotted carpet exhales a puff of dust. “Fuck your _behooves!_ I know what you’re doing!”

James doesn’t seem to hear him. “What’s it matter if it’s blue or turquoise or sunshine yellow— we’ve done it! Merlin, this is better than winning the Cup! This is better than winning a thousand Cups! I could slay a dragon right now! Somebody fetch me a dragon to slay!”

“I’m afraid there’s only one option.” Remus brushes ash from his knees. “We’ll have to start over from scratch.”

James freezes. “What?”

“Of course he was gonna do this, it’s obvious!” Sirius shouts. “Of course he was going to find something wrong now that we’re finished, now that we’re ready to actually transform! It’s been his plan this whole time!”

For just a moment Remus’ face goes flinty. “I haven’t been _planning_ anything. And I realise it’s a setback, but we haven’t got—”

“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR BLOODY MIND?” James screams. “We are not _starting over_ , you FUCKING LUNATIC! That’s five months of work! _Three years_ of work! You can’t just declare that it’s down the tubes just because it’s the _wrong fucking shade of blue!_ ”

But Remus doesn’t raise his voice. “The colour of the potion’s indicative of the progress of the spellwork, it’s the only gauge we’ve got. The research says that if all the spellwork’s been done correctly then at this point the catalyst potion will be deep blue, meaning it’s safe to drink and transform. But it’s not, so clearly—”

“Who died and made you the expert?” James cuts in. “Don’t the three of us get a say in this?” James waves around at him and Sirius, and Peter really wishes he’d leave him out of it. “We’re the ones who’ve been doing the work! It’s been months of these stupid rituals and none of us are dead, are we?”

Peter feels the air in the room shudder, like right before a crash of lightning, and Remus cracks.

“ _Don’t you get it?_ ” he cries. “When they say this spell is deadly, _this_ is the part they mean! You do know what that potion’s for, right? Or have I been the only one reading thoroughly?”

“It— it’s just for, for showing the progress—”

“It’s to keep you from ripping yourselves to shreds when you first transform!” A broken edge Peter’s never heard before shakes Remus’ voice and it makes Peter want to look away and plug his ears and shout nonsense words until it stops. It’s indecent, Remus like this. It’s like seeing an adult cry. “That’s what this spell does left to its own devices— it tears you apart piece by piece at the molecular level and I realise that you’re prepared to take it on faith that it’ll put you back together in some _solid_ form, Prongs, but you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not!”

If that sends a cold bolt of fear through James’ insides like it does to Peters’, James doesn’t show it. “We’ve known all along it’d be dangerous. It’s what we signed up for, all of us.”

“I didn’t,” Remus says. “All along I’ve tried to stop you!”

A scoff makes Peter turn around; he almost forgot Sirius was there. “Bullshit. You could’ve told somebody. If you really didn’t want us to do it you could’ve stopped us, but you didn’t.” He fixes icy eyes on Remus. “You can’t keep trying for immunity, Mr Prefect. You’re one of us, you’re in it. All of it.”

They stare at each other.

“Alright,” Remus says. “You’re right. I accept the responsibility. But I won’t let it happen tonight.” When he looks up his eyes seek out James. “Please.”

"No way!" Sirius goes to James, imploring. It's understood, after all these years, that the decision will always be up to James. "Prongs, come on! You know this is stupid, let's just do the thing already!"

But James doesn't look at him. He watches Remus, a solemn, thoughtful look on his face. Finally, he sighs. "Alright."

Sirius balks. " _Alright?_ You cannot be okay with this, with, with-- starting over from scratch!”

"I think it's time we listened to what Remus wants."

Silence is heavy in the dusty, broken down shack.

“Thank you,” Remus says.

“Yeah,” James says. “So, where d’you reckon we start?”

***

Sirius goes back to his normal self so quickly after the new moon that it makes Remus suspicious. He confides to James about this.

"D'you reckon he's still angry with me?” Remus asks in an undertone one day in Herbology. “Not like him to keep it to himself. I thought he'd be sulking."

James looks surprised. "No, mate. He knows we were right. Well, you were right." He shrugs. "Real moment of growth for him, I think. Our little boy's growing up." Then James goes back to attempting to prune his Chinese Chomping Cabbage without losing a hand and they never discuss it again.

Remus still can’t believe his luck. The one obstacle before him wiped away so easily, without even a bit of Sirius’ characteristic stormy silence as a price? It’s too easy. As the cold and dark January melts into a wet and grey February, he finds himself so happy that he doesn't trust it. It must be a trick, an illusion, how utterly, stupidly blissful he is these days. The Animagus project has been successfully deflected, and he won't have to deal with the imminent deaths of his friends for another five months at least.

And Sirius. Sirius, who doesn't stay angry with him but instead drags him into broom cupboards during his prefect patrol hours; Sirius, who is causing his marks to take a nosedive; Sirius, who is open and giddy and affectionate with him in a way he’s never been before. Remus is no stranger to the feeling of "too good to be true". He’s trying hard to shake it.  

Two weeks go by like this, in this state of precarious happiness, before Remus wakes on the morning of his sixteenth birthday to semidarkness and a human-shaped weight on top of him. He blinks, bleary. Sirius comes into focus, hovering above him on all fours.

"Happy birthday," he whispers.

Still dazed, Remus blinks again. "You really are a dog," he mumbles.

Sirius’ grin goes wider, and without warning he ducks his head and licks a stripe up the side of Remus’ face.

He sputters and grimaces, Sirius cackling all the while. Wiping his cheek with the sheet, Remus mutters, "I really should've seen that coming."

Sirius muffles his laughter into the bedclothes. He surfaces after a moment, loose-limbed and bright-eyed, his hair wild with sleep. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, just a faint milkiness in a sky that promises rain; the curtains drawn round the four poster shrink the world down to fit just the two of them. This sort of quiet, small hours intimacy has been familiar to them since they were eleven years old. It’s yet to stop doing things to Remus’ heart. “So," Sirius says, rolling the word between his teeth, "how's it feel to be sixteen, then?"

“No different. I regret to inform you that sixteen is exactly the same as fifteen."

"That's bollocks," Sirius replies. "We’ve got to start feeling older at some point. We won't still feel exactly like ourselves now when we're thirty, will we?"

"Dunno. Maybe."

Sirius shakes his head. "It happens at some point." Without ceremony he drops his head to Remus' throat, nuzzles there for a moment, then leans up for a kiss.

Grudgingly, Remus tilts his head away. "I must have awful morning breath."

Sirius snickers. He crawls under the covers, tangling their legs, and says, “Good thing I adore you enough that I don’t mind.”

There it is: that improbable happiness. Remus feels full of it. He’s so glutted on pure contentment that he doesn’t know what to do with himself; it’s a curiously helpless feeling. He decides on curling even closer into Sirius and murmuring, “Well, in that case."

Sirius’ face falls a little. “I mean, you aren’t feeling too moony, are you? I can bugger off if you need to sleep some more.”

“I…” For a second Remus can hardly speak, too busy gaping blankly. He finally registers the faint headache behind his eyes, the stiffness in his joints— registers them like they’re far away, like they belong to someone else. He hadn’t even noticed. “Oh,” he says, “It’s the full moon.”

Sirius raises his eyebrows like Remus has just told him that two and two make four. “Yeah?”

“No, no you…” When the shock of the moment fades it replaces itself with a frantic, desperate excitement. His heart beating faster, Remus feels suddenly quite unhinged as he explains, “I’ve never forgotten about the full moon before, not once in _ten years_ have I even _come close_ to forgetting the full, but I— I—” He sits up, less tired than he’s ever been in his life, his breath coming gusting out of him in what might be stunned laughter, he isn’t exactly sure. He beams down at Sirius and says, “I forgot it. Slipped my mind. Entirely.”

Sirius, looking concerned, pushes himself up to meet his eyes. “And that’s…good, yeah?”

If the other two weren’t asleep outside the curtains of the four poster, Remus would laugh out loud. He struggles to keep his voice down over the force of his joy. “You don’t understand, that’s _extraordinary_. All my conscious life a part of me has always, always been dreading the moon— no matter what I’m doing the fear is there, in the back of my head— but for the past two weeks transforming hasn’t crossed my mind, not once, not _once_.” No, the happiness Remus felt before was nothing at all, not compared to this; this is _painful_. He reaches for Sirius’ face with shaky hands, breathing heavily as if he were about to cry or be sick— and who knows, he might do either— and says, “Sirius, it’s like I was a normal person.”

Understanding dawns on his face as Remus watches. It’s wonderful. “And…” says Sirius, with a valiant effort at a neutral expression, “…that wasn’t my doing, was it?”

Remus tackles him.

In the past, Remus’ relationship with his own body has been at best strained, and at worst (and let’s face it, it’s usually worst) fearful. He lives his life in fear of his own body, of the monster that claws its way out of his body and leaves it broken and bloody. Every month his body tries its damnedest to kill him. Naturally, he’s developed a pathological need to have control over it— or the illusion of control, anyway.

It’s finally occurring to him to wonder: how much of his identity is founded on that very principle, that very fear? He isn’t what his body tries to make him. He is controlled and mild and cerebral and tame, and he knows that this allows others to take advantage of him and his passive nature; he swings on a monthly pendulum of monster to boy and in this balance all he can do to keep his dignity and retain his humanity is to hold _control_.

It’s getting tiresome. And if it’s possible for him to forget the moon, if there’s a version of himself within his reach that isn’t ruled by it every second, a version of himself that’s more than the fear...what can’t he do, then?

“You know what?” Remus mutters, pulling back from Sirius’ mouth to grab the collar of his own t-shirt. “Fuck it,” he says, and without stopping to think any more about it he yanks the shirt up over his head and lets it drop to the rumpled blankets.

Sirius’ eyes go wide, and when Remus plucks lightly at his shirt in unspoken question he lifts his arms obligingly. It’s pulled off, tugged free of his long hair, and flicked elsewhere. Sirius’ hand goes, as if by instinct, to smooth over the big, ugly scar carved deep into the skin of Remus’ left shoulder, stretched taut with years and growth spurts. Remus sucks in a quick breath between his teeth; Sirius recoils.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

“No, it’s fine, it doesn’t hurt,” Remus explains, embarrassed. “Just surprising. I…avoid that spot, if I can help it.”

“So, you don’t mind, then?”

“Mind? I…guess not, but—”

He pulls in another breath, sharper this time, when Sirius ducks his head to mouth lightly at the scar. He follows the long, jagged crescent of it across Remus’ shoulder, all the way to where it arcs down toward his bicep, and murmurs, “You _are_ a normal person.”

Remus isn’t sure how they get back to lying horizontally— he must’ve tackled him again. That desperate joy is back, too overwhelming to allow his brain to work properly, it’s too busy sending blood racing in and out of his heart so fast that it sounds like ringing in his ears, like white noise. He feels Sirius tugging on his hair and moving underneath him; they move together, and against his mouth Remus asks, “Alright?”

Sirius nods vigourously. “What’re you suggesting?”

“No idea,” answers Remus, giddy, clueless. “Let’s figure it out.”

He drops his lips to Sirius’ clavicle because that seems the thing to do, lets instinct take over: hands tracking the planes of his torso, legs tangling with his, bodies following each other, push-and-pull. The white noise in his ears cranks up in volume, deafening. As a logical next step he reaches down to pull at the drawstring of Sirius’ pyjama bottoms, fumbling, heart in his throat— and Sirius, with a rattling gasp, doubles over at the waist.

Thoroughly alarmed, Remus sits up again. “Sorry, sorry! Are you—”

“Nope, I’m fine.” Sirius’ voice is pitchy, strangled. “Fucking swell.”

Remus figures it out. He can’t stop laughing, sleeping friends be damned. “Oh my God.”

“Shut up,” groans Sirius to his knees. Even in the dimness his face is noticeably red.

“Oh— oh my _God!_ ”

“Would you shut up?” Sirius hisses. “You’ll wake them! Pass me your wand, would you?”

Remus finds that he is entirely incapable of shutting up. He clutches the stitch in his side and gasps, “Oh dear Jesus, I— can’t believe you just—”

In a barbed whisper Sirius shoots back, “Oh, ‘can’t believe it’, fuck off. I’m fifteen, I’m sure it’s plenty _believable_ ,” before making an attempt at a sort of sideways lurch at the bedside table, knees still drawn to his chest. It doesn’t work.

Losing the last vestiges of his self-control, Remus falls backwards onto the bed and laughs until his stomach hurts.

Across the room there’s the sound of rustling sheets, followed by James’ sleep-drunk voice: “What’s…is…Remus?”

“Oh fuck,” breathes Sirius. He scrambles for the nightstand, nearly toppling out from behind the hangings in the process, and has just pulled his hand back in clutching Remus’ wand when there’s the unmistakable sound of feet hitting the floor. The footsteps cross toward them.

Sirius’ face goes from red to white with remarkable speed. “Oh _fuck,_ ” he hisses, and ducks under the covers.

He’s not a second too soon: the hangings of Remus’ four poster fly open to reveal James, squinting without his glasses, hair stuck up at an improbable angle. He blinks down at Remus, dazed, and mumbles, “So, you’re mental now? That’s exciting.”

“Sorry. I had a funny dream.”

“Who has funny dreams?”

“I do, I suppose.”

“Whatever,” James says, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“What time is it?”

From the other side of the room, Peter’s voice: “Arse o’clock in the morning. Thanks a lot, Moony.”

Remus is opening his mouth to apologize when he feels something stir against his knee under the bedclothes, something not unlike-- it's just a guess, really-- the movement of a wrist casting a nonverbal _Scourgify_. His burst of laughter hastily disguised as a cough doesn’t seem to have convinced James at all, but thankfully he doesn’t inquire further.

“Lunatic,” James mutters to the ceiling. He looks out the window at the brightening steel-grey sky. “No point going back to bed now.”

“Sure there is,” comes Peter’s voice, weakly.

“I’m hungry.” James says it as if that settles the matter, and it seems to have done. “Wake Black, will you?” Remus feels Sirius, squashed as he is against his leg, hold his breath.

Faint sounds of Peter approaching Sirius’ bed, pushing aside the hangings, pulling back the covers. “He’s not here,” Peter reports.

“Where’d he’ve gone at arse o’clock in the morning?”

“Common room?” Remus suggests.

James shrugs, then crosses the room to retrieve his glasses. He lets Carlos roll up his outstretched arm and perch herself on his shoulder as he says, “Whatever. If he’s not there I’m going to breakfast without him.” He turns. “C’mon, Wormtail.”

The door hasn’t even shut completely when Remus feels hands snake out from under the covers to meander up his torso. He snorts, and the top of Sirius’ head emerges.

“Good news,” he tells Remus’ hipbone, “I can make another go of it.”

“I’m sure,” Remus says, laughing. The sun’s barely up and already he’s laughed so much today that his sides hurt. It’s not as if he had many expectations about what introducing sex into his life would be like, but it’s proving to be a lot funnier than he could've anticipated. “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait.”

“Why.”

“Because our friends could come back in at any moment.”

“They said they were going to breakfast.”

“They’ll come up and get dressed first, and an eyeful is the last thing they’d appreciate.”

“James’d deserve it.”

“Padfoot,” Remus says. It starts out as a disapproving sort of laugh but then turns into something sort of choked and breathy and altogether humiliating when Sirius slinks up his side and climbs into his lap, mouthing his shoulder. All told, the word lasts about six syllables.

“You say we’ve got to wait, but I notice you’re not getting out of bed,” Sirius says into a dip of his collarbone and Remus would swear that his breath is hotter than normal but then that’s probably just an illusion owing to the fact that Remus is feeling distinctly overheated at the moment and oh this is getting out of hand. “Intriguing, that.”

Remus takes a deep breath. A deep, _deep_ breath. “There’s a Muggle expression,” he explains. “‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak’.”

“Mm. I’ve never heard it.” Sirius’ hand is wandering.

“You wouldn’t’ve, Jesus said it in Geth—” Remus gasps, stutters, shuts his eyes, opens them again. Breathes deeply. “Gethsemane. We really ought to wait.”

“Spirit’s willing, then,” Sirius observes. “How’s the flesh?”

This is the stupidest idea either of them have ever had. He needs to bat Sirius’ hands away _now_ , this is insane, this…

Breath catching in his throat, Remus answers, “Weak.” Sirius grins like a wolf, Remus’ brain melts.

There are voices on the stairway.

_He ought to be a Quidditch player_ is the only discernible thought that enters Remus’ liquified brain when Sirius leaps off the bed and throws himself onto his own in the half-second it takes James to open the door. _Quite remarkable reflexes, really._

James points. “What the hell? When’d you get there?”

“Been here all night, mate,” says Sirius, eyebrows raised.

James wheels around to Peter. “Fucking hell. How d’you miss a bloke in the space of one bed?”

“I—” Peter’s baffled to the point of incoherence. “What?”

“Never mind that,” Sirius says. “We’ve got to figure out something to do for the birthday boy. Good thing the day’s still young.”

James changes gears with characteristic speed. “You’re absolutely right. Pete wouldn’t let us do anything for his sixteenth, we’ve got to make up for it with Moony’s.”

Remus manages the word, “Spectacular.” Speaking’s still a bit trying.

Peter drops onto Remus’ bed beside him. Spectacular. With as much subtlety as possible, Remus pulls the blankets up a little higher over himself. “Can’t run too late, though,” Peter says. Peter gives him a look, followed by a concerned frown. “How moony are you? You look odd.”

“Do I?” Remus says. Under the blankets he pulls his knees to his chest.

Sirius slides off of his bed and saunters over to Remus’. He climbs up onto the mattress, sandwiching Remus between himself and Peter. To all the world he’s a concerned friend when he turns Remus’ face toward him with two fingers, feeling his forehead with the other hand. James and Peter miss, though, the glint in his eye when he looks Remus square in the face and says lowly, “Think you’re a bit hot.”

Sirius is, far and away, the worst person on the planet Earth.

As he wrenches his face away from Sirius’ hands (he has rather a lot of sense memory attached to them and they aren’t helping) he says, “Don’t worry about me. You lot go on to breakfast.”

Now it’s James turn to be concerned, looking hilariously like his mum in the process. “No skipping meals before the full. Don’t make me force-feed you again, I’ll do it.”

“He will,” Peter chimes in. They show no signs of leaving.

_This is karma for something_ , Remus thinks. He wonders what for. Unscrewing that chandelier in second year? Conspiring with his friends in illegal transfiguration? Laughing at Sirius’…predicament? Or trying to lose his virginity with his friends asleep in the same room?

_Probably that last one_.

“You go on,” he insists. “I’ll catch up later, I’ll— I’ll have a shower.”

He doesn’t turn his head, but even in his peripheral vision he sees Sirius’ quirked eyebrow. “Bet you will.”

It’s a miracle— a bloody _miracle_ — that the other two weren’t paying attention for that one. “I wanna figure out the plan first,” James is saying to Peter, perching himself on the stone windowsill. “Standard common room party? I’ll get the word spread soon so we can start early.”

“Listen, we really haven’t got to do anything,” Remus says (pleads), “it’s just a normal day. Besides, they’ll want me on corridor patrol because of Slughorn’s party.”

James makes a colourful noise between disbelief and disgust. “ _What?_ They’re doing a bloody Slug Club schmooze-fest _tonight?_ ”

Remus nods. “Valentine’s Day, presumably.”

“Dunno why he bothers with a theme beyond ‘pureblood circle-jerk’,” Sirius grumbles.

“Not so pureblood,” Peter points out. “Lily’s practically their queen, isn’t she?”

“Normal circle-jerk, then.”

“Little-Miss-Perfect Evans,” James says to nobody, entering the particular one-man reality he occupies while mumbling darkly about Lily Evans. “Of course she is, everybody thinks she’s so bloody _nice_ , and—”

Sirius interrupts before he gets too far into the monologue. There’s a grin on his face that Remus recognises all too well. “Lads. Let’s gatecrash.”

James’ eyes light up, but Remus cuts him off. “That’s what prefects are patrolling for— students don’t get in who weren’t invited.”

“Students?” Sirius says.

“Yes, why—”

“I don’t know if you lot know this,” Sirius begins, and Remus is about eighty-five percent sure that he just winked at him, “but I’ve got a real knack for glamours.”

 

***

 

“You’re not fooling anybody,” Lily says.

“Fooling?” says James in a high-pitched voice. He flips a lock of waist-length black hair over his shoulder. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Evans?”

“I haven’t told you my name’s Evans.”

“I’m—I—”

“Why, she’s a Seer, of course,” Sirius interjects, adjusting the top hat he found god knows where. He’s trying to compensate for his characteristically posh diction by doing some sort of accent, but it’s unclear what it’s supposed to be. Welsh? Scouse? Peter when he’s stoned? “She knows everybody’s names before being told.”

“Yes, yes of course!” James squeaks. “That’s exactly what I am!”

“You’re James Potter in a dress, and Black is wearing your glasses.”

Sirius laughs with great theatricality. “That’s absurd! If these were somebody else’s glasses and not my own, I would have a headache by now!” He grits his teeth. “Especially if that person were absolutely blind. My headache would be… _splitting_. Right now. Total agony.”

Lily barely has time to roll her eyes before the crowd around them parts to accommodate three new people: Professor Slughorn and, Remus recognises, Frank Longbottom and Alice Higgs. He’s mostly only seen Frank from a distance on the Quidditch pitch, but Alice is much as he remembers her: spritely and kind-faced. Her expression isn’t so kind at the moment, though— both of them look distinctly worried as Slughorn leads them in to their group, booming, “Frank, Alice, this is the young lady I wanted you to meet! Miss Evans is one of my best and brightest, I’m sure she would love to hear about—”

“Oh, they know who I am, Professor,” Lily says. She’s wearing a strange expression that Remus can’t place. “Alice and I overlapped for a year.”

“Ah, so you did! So sorry, counted wrong, I— oh.” Slughorn finally notices the other four people in front of him. He looks embarrassed. “Oh, yes, of course, good to see you all…er, forgive me, I can’t seem to recall—”

James sticks his hand out, palm down, to Frank. In the same strained falsetto he declares, “I am Brunhilde Pekingese, Seer.”

“Isn’t ‘Pekingese’ a breed of dog?” Lily says.

“Er— no.” James rests a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “This is my trophy husband, Ragnar.” Sirius tips his top hat cordially.

As stupid as it all is, Remus has to admit Sirius’ glamours are remarkably advanced: he’s aged all of their faces up, adjusted their features, changed their hair. Sirius himself looks about thirty years older, the hair not hidden under his hat turned a steely grey. Remus is adjusting to life as a blond, and Peter has acquired an impressively bushy mustache. James, it must be said, looks rather shockingly like his mother.

Next James gestures to Peter. “This is our loyal houseboy, Donatello, who—” Peter opens his mouth but James cuts him off, “was rendered tragically mute by having his tongue stolen by a— er— hag. And this,” he indicates Remus now, “is Hieronymus…Smith. Hugely famous werewolf researcher.” It takes all of Remus’ self-control to not step on James’ toes.

Lily crosses her arms. “That’s funny, I haven’t heard of you.”

“Hugely famous in his country,” Sirius chimes in. “He’s…” The briefest of evil glints flashes through Sirius’ eyes, Remus sees it. “He’s _American_.”

_Oh god damn it_ , Remus thinks.

They all look at him expectantly.

“Er,” he says. He makes a go of it. “Yee-up. Yessiree…yessiree Bob.”

“Where in the states are you from?” Frank asks politely.

“New—” says Remus.

“Texas,” says James.

“Good ole New Texas,” says Remus. The unfamiliar vowels grind uncomfortably at the back of his throat. “Yee-up, sure ’nuff.”

“We were, of course, so thrilled to receive your invitation, Horace,” James squeaks. He flips his hair again.

Slughorn nods bracingly, looking only a bit confused. “The pleasure is mine, splendid to have you all, splendid…” He turns to Lily again. “Lily, you must catch up with these two! Terrific things, just terrific! Frank’s graduated from the Auror Academy with flying colours, and Alice writes for the _Daily Prophet_ , most promising up-and-coming journalist anybody’s seen—”

“You’re too kind, Professor.” Alice’s smile looks forced. Slughorn doesn’t seem to notice.

“Nonsense,” he insists, waving a his hand. “Section editor, not five years out of school? Never heard of anything like it! In line for your own column one day soon, if I have any say in the matter!”

“Thank you sir,” she says. Her smile is slipping; Frank looks at the floor.

“Right,” Lily cuts in. She eyes James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter in their disguises. “Professor, why don’t we all…er…walk about a bit? Over— er, this way.”

As soon as the four of them have dissolved back into the party, Sirius whips off James’ glasses. He massages his forehead with a groan. “Merlin’s _balls,_ you’re blind!”

“You’re telling me,” James says, back to his normal voice. “I can’t see a bloody thing. Who even was it that Slughorn brought over?”

“Alice Higgs, remember?” Sirius replies. “And Frank whats-his-name, the Hufflepuff.”

“Ooooh, thought I recognised the voices.”

“I cannot believe you made me American,” Remus complains. “That was just cruel.”

Immediately Sirius falls to cackling. “Classic. Hieronymus Smith, New Texan werewolf researcher-slash-cowboy. You’re the lycanthropic Lone Ranger.”

“Oh shut up, what do you call that accent you had going, then? You sounded like a drunk Beatle.”

“Did I? I was going for Cockney.”

“Missed it by a league, mate,” James says.

Sirius sticks his tongue out at him. “Yeah, well, you make a terrible bird.”

“Are you kidding me? Look how I’m filling out this dress right now— I’m a lot of woman, aren’t I?”

“ _You’re_ not filling out anything, you scrawny berk, that’s the dozen t-shirts you’ve got stuffed under there.”

“At least you lot got to talk,” Peter mumbles. “Why have I got to be the tragically mute houseboy?”

“Because you couldn’t keep a cover in a thousand years, you prat,” James answers. “I did you a favour.”

“Y’know,” Sirius says, adjusting his hat, “Evans was right, as a group we’re too recognisable. We ought to split up for a bit, see if we can’t wreak more havoc that way.”

James nods. “Excellent idea, Ragnar.”

“You didn’t just marry me for my looks.”

“You and Moony go that way, Wormtail and—”

But Sirius has already grabbed Remus by the arm and begun to pull him away. “Great idea, see you lot later.”

The others disappear behind them in the crowded room, which must’ve been magically enlarged for the occasion: Remus has never seen a teacher’s study with these dimensions. Hangings of dusty pink and red drape the ceiling and walls, music that might be lutes is emanating from somewhere, and Remus nearly trips over a roving house-elf bearing a silver tray. A multitude of translucent pink heart-shaped bubbles float overhead, spontaneously appearing, growing, and popping softly in midair.

“Wish I hadn’t been born the day after Valentine’s Day,” he comments, Sirius still dragging him along through the packed partygoers. “The decor doesn’t much suit my tastes.”

“Tacky, yes,” Sirius says as they reach the edge of the room, stopping in front of a satiny pink hanging, “but will ultimately prove convenient.” With one last look around to see that the coast is clear, Sirius tugs Remus forward and ducks them both under the swath of fabric and into the shadows behind it. There are hardly any bubbles back here. The hanging covers a door to what is presumably a storage closet, which Remus finds himself backed up against. He snorts.

“I’m not snogging you while you look like that.”

“Oh, this doesn’t do it for you?” Sirius says, gesturing at his glamour-ed features. He’s trying to keep a straight face and failing. “Aren’t into the older men, are we?”

Remus can’t stop giggling like an idiot. It’s the theme of today. What it is about happiness that makes him lose all dignity he doesn’t know, but he can’t bring himself to care much. “You look like a regency villain, I can’t do it.”

“You aren’t up to your usual standards of sexiness either, you know— you make for a fuck-awful blond.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Sirius shrugs, says, “Eh, guess I just shan’t look at you, then,” and goes in for his neck. Remus cracks up again.

Light falls over them as the hanging is pushed aside. With a profound sense of deja-vu, Remus looks up into the stunned face of Professor Slughorn. There’s a shocked moment in which none of them move.

Slughorn blinks heavily before clearing his throat. “Gentlemen,” he says.

Remus swallows. “Howdy.”

“If, er,” Slughorn says, gesturing vaguely, “if— if I might—”

“Oh, oh right, yes.” Sirius’ strange fake accent seems to have migrated, inexplicably, toward French. “Don’t mind us.” He pulls Remus aside to free access to the door. Slughorn goes in.

It takes an eternity for him to leave the closet, laden with bottles, shut the door behind him, give the disguised Sirius and Remus a stiff nod each, and shuffle off back into the party. The pink hanging hasn’t stilled entirely behind him when Sirius withdraws his wand and twirls it lazily. The glamour slips away to leave him handsome and fifteen again; Remus feels a slight prickle on his face and gathers he’s also back to normal. Sirius takes off his top hat, shakes out once again black and glossy hair, and deposits it onto Remus’ head.

Sirius grins. “Wear it every day.”

“Sure,” Remus deadpans. “Why is he always walking in on us?”

“Kinky old bastard.”

_“Eugh.”_

Still cackling, Sirius presses up against Remus with enough enthusiasm to knock the top hat, forgotten, to the floor. “Let’s sneak out.”

“Wh— but we’ve only just snuck in?”

“Come back to Gryffindor Tower with me,” he whispers, and his smile is catching. “They won’t know where we’ve got to, they’ll assume you were feeling moony and had to take off.”

Something hot explodes in Remus’ stomach. He can’t help dragging Sirius in and kissing him for a bit before pulling back to say, “Alright.” But before Sirius can drag him out into the party again Remus is seized by an idea, one that makes him open the door, duck into the dusty closet, and pluck a promising looking bottle off the shelf. He withdraws again, holds the bottle of gin up for Sirius’ inspection, and says, “Would you care to spike the punch bowl on our way out?”

The most incredible expression crosses Sirius’ face, like Christmas has come early and somebody finally got him a motorbike. He stares at Remus, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

“Fuck, you’re just…” He visibly struggles for words even as he beams. “I…Remus, I…”

Whatever he was going to say, he gives up on it; he presses Remus against the doorframe and kisses him hard. Remus swings the hand still clutching the gin bottle around his shoulders, catching his neck in the crook of his elbow to drag him closer. Overhead, a heart-shaped bubble or two swell and burst.

Sirius is the one to pull away, grinning and energised. He takes the bottle, pulls out his wand, and with two simple waves restores both of their glamours. He pushes aside the hanging, scoops up the top hat from the floor, sets it on his head, and declares, “Let’s do this.”

“Make it quick, before the other two catch us and make us stay,” Remus says. He reaches up to adjust the angle of Sirius’ hat and drops his voice: “I’d quite like you to myself for a bit, if it’s all the same to you.”

Sirius blinks, swallows. “Yeah, yep,” he says, nodding quickly. “Yes sir.”

He grabs Remus by the wrist to tug him out into the crowd. Even as they furtively empty the contents of the bottle into the punch bowl, he doesn’t let go.

 

***

 

“Merlin, I don’t even know where to _start_ ,” James says lowly. “We’re in a room full of the most hex-able prats at Hogwarts. I’m a kid in Honeydukes.”

Peter looks skeptical. Or James suspects he does. “Can you see who anybody is, though?”

“Well, no,” James admits to the flesh-coloured blob that is Peter’s face, “but I _feel_ it. It’s prat-city in here, I have a sense for it. No one with any self-respect would be caught dead in this club.”

“Hey, there’s Dirk,” says Blob-Peter.

James shakes his head sadly. “Can’t resist the siren song of ambition, Cresswell. No matter how many times I fill his shoes with flobberworms, he keeps being a kiss-arse.”

“Does it upset him, you putting flobberworms in his shoes?”

“Nah, takes it like a man. Knows he deserves it. Y’know, Pete,” James says as he collides with a witch he mistook for a bit of drapery, “I think you may’ve got a point about my blindness being an issue.”

“We could find Sirius and get your glasses back.”

“Don’t be silly, you’ll just be my eyes for me.”

“Er, I…”

“All you’ve got to do,” James explains patiently, “is point out anybody I hate nearby. It’s easy.”

“W-well,” says the amorphous blob with Peter’s stammer, “Snape’s over there.”

James’ excitement sends him whirling around and knocking over a blob that vaguely resembles Rodney Stebbins. “Excellent! Where?”

“Er, over—”

He whips out his wand and points it in sort of the direction Peter’s pointing. “Here?”

“No, no you’re—”

James fires off a hex. There’s a crash and some shouts. “I get him?”

“No, but some old bloke’s sprouting leeks from his ears.”

“Can’t win ’em all,” James says, but then something catches his eye. “Oy!”

“What?”

Blind as he is at the moment, James can still make out colours— there’s no mistaking that red. And as a person who spends a lot of time sneaking around and hiding behind stuff, he recognises that too. He grabs Peter by the elbow and begins to haul him through the crowd, saying, “Evans! The goody-two-shoes is up to something!”

“Wait, wh— what?”

“Dunno, do I? C’mon.”

They reach the hanging James saw the red hair disappear behind and he pulls them to a stop. Holding a finger to his lips, James gestures Peter in, sidles as close to the fabric as he dares, and listens.

He isn’t sure who he was expecting to hear Lily talking to, but Frank Longbottom wasn’t it. Yet, sure enough:

“—don’t know where you’re getting your information, Lily, but you—”

“There are other papers besides the _Prophet_ , you know.” Her voice is a fierce whisper. “Ones that report what’s really going on.”

“Those fringe papers never last long and there’s good reason for it.” It’s Alice whispering back now. “Listen, you can send us as many angry owls as you want, the answer is still—”

“‘Shut up, you’re too young’?” Lily hisses. “‘Keep your head down, let the grown-ups handle it’? That’s a stupid answer!”

“It’s out of our hands,” Frank says. “There are rules, you shouldn’t even know the group _exists_ let alone want—”

“But I _do_ know you exist, so you might as well let me in, oughtn’t you?”

“Just because you’ve been eavesdropping outside Professor McGonagall’s office— oh, don’t deny it, I know that’s the only way you could’ve found out—”

Lily mumbles something that sounds like, “Staffroom, actually.”

“It doesn’t matter how crafty you are, you’re still fifteen years old.”

“I’m sixteen!”

“You’re in school. The Order’s got strict rules on the subject— even after I joined, Frank still had to wait a full year to graduate before he was allowed anywhere near—”

“But wouldn’t having somebody inside the school be a good idea?” Lily interrupts. “Because the other side’s been at that for years, hasn’t it occurred to you lot that—”

“Yes, clever Miss Evans, it’s occurred to us,” Alice says, so scathing that James can hear the voice die in Lily’s throat. “And there are plenty of members who’re very much of your mind, but for now the consensus is still that we won’t stoop to their level.”

“Seems like the time to stoop’s come a long time ago,” Lily argues. “Even the _Prophet_ — what was it, three days ago? Whole family of Muggles killed in their beds, Dark Mark plastered everywhere? Two weeks before that, a Muggleborn-pureblood wedding gets attacked with Fiendfyre! Even that rag of yours can’t pretend nothing’s wrong!”

Alice’s voice goes low, steady: “It’s not a rag of mine. I didn’t have the heart to contradict Professor Slughorn, but I haven’t worked for them in months; they sacked me. Didn’t like the stories I kept wanting to print. When they found out I was a member it was the last nail in the coffin. Not a lot of people know who we are, but the ones who do can agree that we’re bad for business.”

“I…I didn’t realise—”

“Exactly,” Frank cuts in. “There’s loads you can’t realise about what’s at stake here because you are _too young_. You’re too young to handle it, and you’re too young to keep digging around in stuff that doesn’t concern you.”

“Doesn’t…doesn’t _concern_ me?” Lily’s voice stays at a whisper even as it trembles with fury. “What’s your blood status again, Longbottom?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What’d you mean, then?”

“That you ought to stay a teenager for these last couple of years. You can grow up later. Be a kid for just a bit longer.”

“Being a kid won’t stop them killing me.”

A frustrated sigh. “You’re a lot less sweet than I remember,” Alice says.

“I’ll be sweet again when I’ve got the time, for now there’s a war on and you _won’t let me fight_.”

Maybe it’s because of how raptly fascinated he is that James doesn’t notice himself leaning steadily forward. Maybe the universe does just hate him. Either way, just as it’s getting good James loses his footing, overbalances, and stirs the hanging; there’s a swirl of fabric and red hair and a wand in his face. The world goes sideways. Next thing he knows he’s suspended upside down in mid air, hanging there by one ankle, wrestling with the folds of his borrowed dress which have tumbled down around his face. He hears shouts of laughter from all sides. Great.

For a moment he’s even more blind than he was before, his vision blacked out by the fabric. But then it’s whipped out of the way and he sees the insufferable, endlessly irritating know-it-all face of Lily Evans. She’s close enough that he can make out her smug expression just fine.

“The gown’s lovely,” she says, “but you really ought to learn how to mind your own business.”

She flounces off, insufferably, and waves her wand behind her. Gravity snaps back to action and James goes crashing to the floor, landing in a heap of limbs and skirts and profanity.

More laughter. He can’t see the faces of the people crowding around to investigate, but he recognises Cresswell’s voice: “Nice dress, Potter!”

James’ hand darts to his hair. It’s short. He feels his face, and besides being burning hot it’s back to normal. The bloody glamour fell off.

“Buggering hell,” he mutters. He lifts an arm blindly into the air. “Wormtail. Little help.”

Peter, good sport that he is, pulls him to his feet without any comments. He’s a good one, that kid. “Shall we leave, then?” Peter asks.

James nods. He’s still struggling to make sense of what he just heard. What the bloody hell is Lily Evans up to? “Yeah, probably best,” he says, distracted. “Where are—”

“Over there, look.”

“Take your word for it.” James picks a direction and shouts, “Moony, Padfoot! Abort mission!”

Eventually a couple of blobs shaped more or less like Remus and Sirius appear, shepherded over by Peter. “What?” says Sirius’ voice, a little testily.

“We’re blowing this Acid Pop stand. Have you got my glasses? Having a bit of trouble here.”

“Oh— right—”

Sirius presses the glasses into James’ hand and he puts them on. He blinks as the room comes sharply into focus. “Shit, it’s even worse than I imagined. Are those heart bubbles?” James looks round at the others and blinks again. “What’s wrong with you two?”

“Nothing,” say Sirius and Remus. At the same time.

James raises his eyebrows, skeptical. “You’re up to something. What’d you do?”

“Nothing,” says Sirius.

“Spiked the punch bowl,” admits Remus.

James snorts. “Is that all? Merlin, you lot looked like you were in cahoots to murder me. Guilty conscience, much?”

“Yeah,” says Sirius.

James rolls his eyes. “C’mon, let’s split before somebody tattles on us.” He leads the way to the door, clearing a path with his elbows. As soon as they hit the corridor he reaches down his front to pull wads of t-shirts out of his dress. “We’ll have to get this stuff back to the laundry eventually.”

“Where’d your glamour go?” Sirius asks, taking out his wand and returning himself, Peter, and Remus back to normal. “That was my finest work. As if you weren’t already your mum.”

“Fell off when Evans jinxed me,” James grumbles. “I’ll hand it to her that that was a good one, wish I’d heard the incantation. Wonder where she got it?”

“Sorry your birthday turned out lame, Moony,” Peter says.

“I don’t mind, honestly,” Remus replies. “Besides, it’s still got a few hours left. I won’t meet Madam Pomfrey in the entrance hall until ten at the earliest.”

“Real drag that it’s got to be tonight. Your sixteenth birthday? Not ideal. We—” James cuts off when a strange jolt throws his balance. He narrowly avoids tripping, then he turns to Sirius. “Oy, don’t step on a girl’s dress, it’s not on.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“Who was it, then? Somebody stepped on the back of my dress.”

“We’re walking in a line, mate; you tripped on your own feet.”

“Anyway,” James says loudly, “Remus is right, he’s still got some birthday left. What do you wanna do, then?”

Remus shrugs. “I dunno. Cards?”

“You’re _boring!_ ”

“I am, and it’s my night,” Remus says. “So we’re all going to be boring for a change.”

James groans.

 

***

 

The score is one thousand and seventy-seven to nine hundred and eighteen, and Sirius is finally about to go mad. It’s a long time coming. Sort of a relief, really.

“Head in the game, Padfoot,” James snaps. He’s just had to put out Sirius’ sleeve after yet another one of his cards went up in flames. The more sentient (and singed) this pack of cards grows over the years, the better they get at telling when their player is distracted. James picks up Carlos from the playing field and moves her out of danger.

“Maybe we’ll finally beat you lot for once!” says Peter. Smelling hubris, his whole hand of cards start to smoke.

“Fat chance,” says Remus, smiling, and how fucking dare he. This whole situation’s frustrating enough without him going and _smiling_ , or brushing his hair out of his eyes, or laughing that small self-deprecating laugh to himself, the one that makes his mouth quirk up and his eyes dart sideways and Sirius’ insides ache.

Maybe Sirius is a tad more sensitive than usual at the moment. A tad. Or maybe he’s been so on edge all day that he now feels his wits slipping. Either way, he figures he can be forgiven. It’s been a charged day between the two of them, to say the least. Sirius is trying his hardest to chill out, to not stare at him with hearts for eyes like in the fucking Muggle cartoons, but the longer he sits here with their friends, trying to be normal and not lose his sodding marbles, the clearer it becomes that Remus really is going to be the end of him and also his sanity.

He bit his lip fifteen minutes ago. Sirius is still dealing with it.

“What I still don’t understand,” Remus says, running a hand through his hair because he’s got a lot of fucking nerve, “is why you were spying on Lily in the first place.”

“I wasn’t _spying_ , I was eavesdropping. There’s a difference.”

“My mistake.”

“You can tell when somebody’s up to something,” James explains. “And I’m telling you, Little Miss Perfect is up to something! That’s why I followed her— you can tell, can’t you?”

“We’ve got enough experience,” Peter admits.

“Exactly! That’s how I recognised it!” James tosses down a card without looking at it. “Whatever group this was that she’s been harassing Frank and Alice about, it’s right fishy. There’s something very dodgy about all of this.”

“I don’t know,” Remus says slowly. “It sounds like it’s just some sort of political organisation. Not much to be dodgy there.”

“A political organisation that gets you fired from the _Prophet_ just for being a member?” James argues. “Nah, it’s something more than that. Something underground. And Evans admitted that she only knows about it because she was spying on the teachers!”

“Eavesdropping,” Remus corrects.

James shoots him a withering look. Remus primly sets down a card.

Irate, James goes on. “And she tells me to mind my business, isn’t that just bloody rich? She’s the biggest busybody in the year! Always up in everybody’s lives, knows all the gossip, doesn’t she? And now she’s meddling about in this stuff, whatever it is, and eavesdropping on the bloody teachers. Just goes to prove what I’ve been saying all along: the girl’s dodgy as a three-headed hippogriff. And I’m the only one who realises it!” James crosses his arms and slumps down on the sofa. “Perfect, popular Evans. Wish her adoring fans knew she’s a dirty sneak.”

“You’re the one who was spying on her, mate,” Sirius points out.

“ _Eavesdropping!_ And for justice! Somebody’s got to expose her for what she is!”

“Good on you, Prongs,” Remus says placatingly. He turns to the rain-washed window, searching for a faint white glow through the heavy clouds. “Getting to be that time, I think.”

James checks his watch. “Yeah, you ought to go.”

“I’ll walk you down.” Sirius gets to his feet.

James looks confused. “Why?”

“It’s good manners,” Remus says. He stands.

“Born in a barn, that one.” They turn to go and James fires some half-hearted sparks at the back of Sirius’ head.

“Y’know,” Sirius comments as he climbs through the portrait hole, “every time I think, ‘yeah, having a girlfriend has finally lessened Prongs’ obsession with Lily Evans’, he goes and proves me wrong. Sort of charming, isn't it, how consistent he is?”

“He doesn’t give up grudges easily, we know that,” Remus says. They set off down the corridor. “Though in this case the whole grudge seems to be her status as the one person in the school who isn’t impressed by him.”

“Could think of a few other people,” Sirius says darkly. “You think he was making that stuff up, then, about the secret underground group, or whatever?”

“Can’t see why he would’ve. I’m hesitant to make much of it, though. Lily’s just…passionate. I doubt she’s involved in anything criminal or otherwise dodgy. You could ask her, you know. You’re friends.”

“We sort of are,” Sirius replies. “It’s weird. When you pretend like you aren’t friends with each other it’s hard to tell how much you actually _are_ , know what I mean?”

“That makes sense.”

“I trust her, I guess. I tell her stuff. Like, she knows about you. Not,” he amends, gestures vaguely at Remus, “not the furry little problem, but. You and me, she knows about that.”

“Oh?”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, not at all.” They start down the stairs. Past the tiny window above the landing the rain is picking up, lashing the waving black sea of the Forbidden Forest. They’ve reached the fourth floor when Remus finally says, “I think she knows about the other thing too. I’m fairly certain she does.”

“What? How?”

“It was a few months ago,” Remus says. “She offered to switch shifts with me something like five days in advance. She said that I ‘didn’t look like I was feeling well’.”

“Maybe you didn’t. You really can look like shit when you’re moony, y’know.”

“Thanks. And maybe, but to offer a week in advance? She knew when the moon was, she must’ve.”

Sirius hums noncommittally. “Maybe. You’d be alright with that, then, if she knew?”

“Suppose I’d have to be.”

“What if she told Snivellus?”

“If she was going to she would’ve already,” he says. “All things considered…if somebody had to figure it out, I don’t mind so much that it’s her.”

“I suppose.”

They take the long way; they pass the library, and on its other side the mirror that conceals their secret passageway. It’s cheesy that Sirius automatically thinks of it as _theirs_ , but he can’t help it.

Maybe Remus does too, because it doesn’t seem to be prompted by much when he says, “You know, I do wish people could know. Not about-- that,” he says quickly, “I mean the other thing. It’s a shame you and I have got to be so secretive.”

Sirius puts his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I know. Especially unfair, since we’ve been…whatever, I guess, for just as long as James and Florence, down to the _hour_ even, but— granted we only really figured our shit out a few weeks ago so I suppose it doesn’t really count, but—”

“I know,” Remus says. “I understand.”

“And, y’know, all that I wouldn’t even mind,” Sirius adds, deep in thought now. “Could have the whole of Hogwarts calling me a queer and a this and a that— see any of them try to mess with us, I’d love that, I wouldn’t even mind. It’s my sodding family.” He lets out his frustration on a noise and it comes out like a growl. “That time I talked to Andromeda before Christmas, she said something about how it wasn’t safe for her and her husband, they were leaving the country. And I know it’s bad for pureblood-Muggleborn couples everywhere right now, but I don’t think that’s what she meant. I wouldn’t put it past my family to take care of it themselves, and I think that’s what she was afraid of.”

“So,” Remus says slowly, lightly, “what you’re saying is that, should they find out about us, your family might put a hit out on me?” He tips his head to the side. “Sounds a bit…intense, don’t you think?”

“You don’t know these people, Moony,” Sirius says. “They’re intense about bloody everything, they take themselves all so seriously with their _blood purity_ and all the other rot, this mania, thinking they’re royalty— it’s messed with their brains, all the inbreeding aside. I’m the male heir, you can bet a thousand Galleons they’re going to be right intense about me continuing the line.”

“Suppose I’m not the best suitor.” They climb down some more stairs; Remus raises his eyebrows, contemplative. “Being half-blood. And a werewolf. And male.”

“Yeah, I suppose not.”

Surprisingly, Remus smiles. “I wonder…Which part of me would they have the biggest objection to, do you think? The mum, the dick, or the fangs?”

Sirius bursts out laughing. “You know, I can’t say. Couldn’t tell you.”

“I’m the whole package.”

“You really are.”

“Well, fuck them,” Remus says as he waves a hand. “What do they know? I’m dating the best-looking boy at Hogwarts.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Best word for it, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sirius smiles. “I would, yeah.”

Remus looks over. He reaches for Sirius’ closest hand, brings it up, and kisses his knuckles. He lets it drop, returns Sirius’ smile.

They round the corner and walk down the grand staircase into the Entrance Hall, where Madam Pomfrey waits by the double doors. She looks very surprised to see Sirius. “What’re you doing here, Black?”

“Just escorting.”

She looks at him, suspicious. “Get back to your dormitory quickly, then. It’s late.” She turns to shepherd Remus through the doors, opening an umbrella over their heads against the pelting rain. “Time to get going.”

With a last look over his shoulder, Remus follows her; Sirius waves. The doors fall shut with an echoing _thud_ , and Sirius is left standing alone in the Entrance Hall. Not sure what to do with himself now, he looks around at the dim hall. The gems in the House hour glasses glint dully. The room’s empty. It’s quiet.

Quiet… he hears, soft but unmistakable, the slow fall of footsteps.

Without having to think, without a moment’s pause, with his pulse thundering in his ears Sirius spins around and whips out his wand and cries, “ _Finite incantatem!_ ”

The charm slips off of the figure like water; he makes a break for it but Sirius is faster, calling out, “ _Impedimenta!_ ” as he charges forward, swings out a hand, and catches the temporarily frozen Snape by the throat. He digs his fingers in, takes immense satisfaction in watching the black eyes bulge.

“Disillusionment Charm,” Sirius says. He keeps his voice casual but only just; his breath comes short and hot and heaving under the weight of his anger. “What a clever boy, so very, very clever.”

The Impediment Jinx only lasts so long and Snape starts to struggle; Sirius wraps his fist into his collar and another around his skinny wrist, smacking the wand from his hand and holding him in place even as he kicks and thrashes. “How long have you been spying, huh?” Gives him a good shake. “How long?!”

“Followed Potter at the party,” Snape pants. “He’s trying to get Lily in trouble. Truly is thick as they come, I stepped on his stupid dress and he still didn’t suspect—”

“What’re you doing here, then?”

“I heard plenty,” Snape says and he’s gloating now, the slimy son of a bitch, a smile slithers over his face that Sirius wants to hex in two, “Lupin mentioned coming down here at ten, so I waited. Nice of you to walk him down, very gentlemanly. Did you hold hands?”

Sirius struggles to think quickly through the blood hammering in his head, to piece it all together— Snape came up from the dungeons to wait in the Entrance Hall, he couldn’t have heard anything of Sirius and Remus’ conversation coming downstairs— he was too preoccupied with stalking James at the party to have paid the two of them any attention— he’s got that look on his face, the stupid ugly smirk that makes Sirius’ rage so loud it hurts to breathe but isn’t quite smug enough for a sneaking bastard who knows a juicy secret-- and in an instant he’s certain. Snape doesn’t know about him and Remus. He hit on the truth by accident, not because he actually found them out. It’s a generic taunt, nothing more.  

They don’t make hexes strong enough.

“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t curse you into bits, Snivellus,” Sirius growls. “One reason why I shouldn’t crush you into a grease stain—”

“Because I’m this close to finding out what’s up with Lupin, what you and your mates are up to,” Snape says quickly. “And once I do, what’s stopping me from turning you in?” There’s something bright and manic in his eye now. “I’ll make you a deal…get Potter to lay off Lily, to mind his own business and never talk to her again, and when I work it out I won’t get all four of you expelled.”

Sirius bursts out laughing so violently that he lets go of Snape, tips his head back to the fathomless ceiling. “That is rich,” he gasps. Snape scrambles for his wand on the flagstone floor, straightens, and raises it, but Sirius can’t even care. He’s so _angry_ , but Jesus Christ, it’s so _funny_ — “You don’t even know what it is we’re up to, you’ve got no bloody idea! And what’s the plan then, eh? Gonna run to McGonagall and tell on us like you did with Regulus?”

That seems to throw Snape off. “What?”

“Don’t play stupid!” Sirius barks. He pulls out his wand again and points it at the ready when he says, “Somebody told McGonagall that Regulus is one of you. You sold him out just to spite me! Go on, deny it!”

Slowly, Snape blinks. Then he scoffs. “This is a new level of stupidity, even for you. Why would I put myself at risk— risk from our side and from the authorities— just to irritate _you_? But, of course, the world does revolve around precious, pretty Sirius Black,” he sneers, lip curling, “with his precious Black blood.”

“I—I—” The thoughts are sticking in Sirius’ brain; his foot’s caught in the trick step, he’s in the air without a broom. He flings out the words, “There’s nobody else it could’ve been, you dirty snakes are the only ones who knew! Who else would’ve had motive to turn in a boring, unremarkable, idiot thirteen-year-old? Eh, genius?”

That ugly smirk is back. Snape crosses his arms and looks to be having the time of his useless, greasy life when he says, “But we weren’t the only ones who knew, remember? If I were you,” he says, simpering, “I’d ask those dear, dear mates of yours.”

Sirius fires off a curse before Snape’s finished the sentence, but somehow he blocks it. Snape feigns surprise. “Have I hit a nerve?”

“Don’t you say a word against my friends!” Sirius snarls. “Just because you haven’t got any—”

“I’ll talk about them as much as I please, especially when I get the whole lot of you expelled!” Snape says. He stares Sirius down, and purest loathing stretches his sallow face. “You wait— you just _wait._ ”

And again Sirius laughs. But this time he can’t stop, it’s ripped out of him on big, rattling breaths, shakes his whole body that’s already shaking— his hands tremble like they do when he’s so furious he could spit blood but right now his anger feels very far away from him, like a huge dark cloud you see looming in the distance when the taste of rain is like metal on your tongue, like blood— oh, it’s so funny, it’s so _funny_ , and then Sirius thinks of something even funnier, the funniest thing he’s ever thought of— it shakes him from the inside, he feels his guts rattle because this is hilarious, this is hilarious, it’s the best idea he’s ever had—

“You want to know where Remus goes, Snivellus?” Sirius says, all courtesy. “Would you really like to know? All you’ve got to do is wait,” he checks his watch, “say, thirty minutes, go out to the Whomping Willow, and poke the knot on the trunk with a branch. There’s a lovely little secret passageway built underneath just for you. Go on and follow that, and you’ll learn everything you want to know.”

Snape stares at him differently now; he looks a bit frightened. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch at all,” Sirius says. He smiles benignly. Turns for the staircase.

He hears Snape’s voice behind him: “How will I know when I’ve found it?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” He doesn’t turn around. “You’ll know.”

With no hurry at all, Sirius makes his way toward Gryffindor Tower. He’s alone in the dark, sleepy castle. All is silence save for his breathing, the fall of his footsteps, and, quiet through thick stone walls, a distant roll of thunder.

 

***

 

****


End file.
